Sins of the Father
by Rosettaston3
Summary: As a father, Harry must deal with the choices he has made in the past as it collides with the present. As expected, angsty. But with Ruth at his side, he will have someone to help him through these troubled waters. How will it all end? Read on...
1. Chapter 1

**Sins of the Father **

_Harry deals with his grown children and the choices he has made as their father, both in the past and present. As such, this fic will be angst-filled. But with Ruth at his side, Harry does have someone to help him get through these troubled waters. How will it all end? Read on... :)_

- 1-

Half asleep on the couch, and aimlessly stroking Scarlet, Harry reaches for the phone without looking at the display. But as soon as he hears who it is and how she sounds, he is instantly alert.

"Dad?"

"Catherine. What's wrong?"

She pauses for only an instant, but it might as well be an eternity. "It's Graham."

He closes his eyes.

"He's in hospital."

And swallows.

"He's been shot."

"How bad?"

"It's minor. He's ok."

He remembers to breathe again. "Where are you?"

"With him."

"Yes. But where?"

"St Charles."

He pushes Scarlet off his lap and stands up from the couch. "I'll be right there."

"Dad." And he hears her hesitate. "Mom's coming, too."

"Fine. Of course." He says, making his way to the hall closet. "Catherine," he says, opening the closet door, "Are you alright?"

"Dad…. I'm not sure if you should… come, actually."

"Then why did you call me?" He cringes at the coldness in his voice. But he does nothing to soften his tone nor his words as he reaches inside the hall closet. "Catherine?" He asks into the silence, his hand now suspended above his coat.

"You know …how he feels. He….He's… "

" My son." He says softly, then drops his hand to his side. "Tell me what happened."

"It was a... drug deal gone bad."

"Go on," he says quietly, staring at his coat, untouched, still on its hanger.

"There really isn't a lot to tell. But, " she adds, "it's not hard drugs."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Just pills? Or weed? Or God knows what else. Then you call me and…Oh, God. I'm …sorry. I am. Please...don't…cry, Catherine. . Don't."

"Not crying," she says, convincing no one.

"I worry about you too, you know. " He says gently, his head bowed just a bit.

"I'm all right."

"No it's ...not… You're not. " He pauses. "At least let me be with you, then."

"But Dad.. I'll be with—"

"I'm your parent , too." He says, his words little more than a sigh.

"I know."

"Give me the name of his doctor. And everything else that you have."

After she does, he says, "At least come here. After. This evening."

"I can't leave him. And Mom."

He slowly shuts the closet door. "Catherine," he says only. And in that one word, both hear all the words left unsaid.

* * *

The following morning, Harry is back in his glass cubicle of an office, little more than a box, really. Exposed. Yet isolated. A perfect metaphor, he feels at times, for his life.

"Yes?" He barks, not looking up at the shadow next to him. "How many times must I tell you people not to-"

"I'm sorry." She says, a piece of paper in her hand.

"Come in, Ruth," he says, much more gently. "What do you have there?"

"It's not..I can come back later…"

He shakes his head. "Don't mind me. A bad night, that's all."

Silently, she gives him the paper.

He glances at it, then crumples it. "Bugger the Home Office. " Then he throws the offending bit into his waste basket. It hits the rim then drops inside.

"Shall I tell them that, then?" She flicks her eyes from the wastebasket then back to him, still seated at his desk.

"No. I will." He drops his gaze back down to the papers on his desk. "Is there anything else?" He asks, not looking at her.

She waits a second before replying. "Harry... I .."

"Yes?" A sigh escapes him even as he keeps his eyes somewhere, anywhere, away from her eyes, those piercing blue eyes he sees even when she's not looking at him.

"Is….Is there. …Did I…?"

He lifts his eyes to her, then. And just as he knew she would be, she's looking at him with the gentlest of expression, and her eyes, those eyes, so impossibly blue, are filled with concern.

"I'm sorry. Ruth. ..." He shakes his head. "It's..." He drops his voice. "Close the door, will you?"

Reaching over, she slides the heavy door shut. Then stands there. Expectantly.

"You may be sorry you asked, actually." He gestures to the chair opposite his desk.

She sits down, her hands in her lap, now facing him. Uncharacteristically still, she waits, her extraordinary eyes still fixed upon him.

"It's my son. "

She says nothing. Just gives an imperceptible nod, but it's all he needs. "He's in ..hospital."

"Oh. God, Harry I'm—"

"He's ok." Then shrugs. "For him, that is."

"Sorry?"

He sighs, "You know that he has...problems... Substance abuse." He shakes his head again. "Let's not mince words. Drugs." He blinks before he goes on. "And last night he was involved in some sordid drug deal gone bad. But," he says, "according to Catherine, it's somewhat ameliorated by the fact that my drug addict of a son is not doing hard drugs. Yet." He makes a face.

"I'm so sorry." She says. "What can I..?" She flips both hands over, palms exposed.

"Do?" He sighs loudly. "He's been in and out of rehab since a teenager. First alcohol. Then pills. Weed. And anything else he can get his hands on. But he's scared of needles." He sighs. "I guess I should be grateful for that. Or so Catherine tells me. But …he can't hold a job. Can't...do...much of... " He sighs again, his shoulders rising then falling.

"I'm sure that…"

"Don't be." He says, curtly. "Be sure of nothing. He won't even see me."

No one speaks for a moment. Then she reaches for the edge of his desk, his own hand resting on the surface just inches away.

He takes note of her hand. Then lifts his eyes to hers again. "I'm sorry. I know that I've been a bear today. More so than usual." He adds and smiles just a bit.

She shakes her head. "You're not a bear. Well. Perhaps not quite full-grown. More like... a cub. "And she smiles a bit as well, a hint of her dimples showing.

"Well, " he says, "this ..cub could use a drink. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Sorry?"

"It's all related, isn't it? " And before she can answer, he says, "Or so it would appear from what I've read about ...substance abuse."

She shakes her head. "It's not the same. You..."

"I like to drink. You can say it."

"But you-"

"I wonder. Maybe that's why he..." And he lets it hang there.

"Harry." She says firmly. "You're not an alcoholic. You hold a responsible job and given the enormous stress you are under, both professionally and personally, I 'd say you-"

"-What? What would you say?"

"That..you're... ok."

"Ok?" He says, the bitterness so sharp he can almost taste it. "My own son won't see me. And neither will Catherine."

"But I thought that you and she were…"

"No. I mean... Yes. You're right. We've repaired our relationship. Somewhat. But she's loyal to her mother. And her brother. The former I can understand. But the ..." And he shakes his head.

"He's her brother. " She says, leaning in towards him. "Your son."

"Are you reproaching me?" And he leans back from her.

"No. I only meant.."

He sighs, then. Loudly. "Ah.. a bear. I told you so."

Her dimples flash then disappear. "Harry. Have you eaten anything today?"

He shrugs. " I'm fine, Ruth. And I appreciate your concern. As usual."

"Well, I do think that ..."

"Yes. That I should eat something."

"No." She says, and sits up a bit straighter. " We should have lunch. Together. In a bit. Or now. Or... later. .. I .." Her cheeks turn a charming shade of pink, but she keeps her eyes on him.

"You know," he says, the first genuine smile breaking through, "that's the best idea anyone has had all day." And he stands up, pushing back his chair.

"Now?" she asks, her eyes going wide.

"Yes." He says. "Now."

She stands up as well, then waits a bit uncertainly.

"Let's go." He says. "I suddenly find that I'm starving." And he picks up his mobile and shakes it a bit at her. "They'll know where to find me."

She smiles, then. " Careful. You might…."

"Drop it? Break it? " He smiles ruefully. Then slipping his mobile inside his coat pocket, he slides the door open.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sins of the Father:** _Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry, Ruth & co., and MI-5 are not mine. However, since I presume familial angst to be familiar to many of us, what follows is uniquely my vision of the subject matter. _

-2-

He slides her glass of mulled cider over to her, the spices rising up between them. Each breathes in appreciatively. "Nice," Harry says, picking up his own pint.

She nods. "Maybe you should have ordered this." And she smiles across at him, her dimples flashing for a moment.

"I thought," he says, wiping his lips, "that I'm not an alcoholic."

"I only meant... I mean. You said…." Her hand tightens around her drink.

He reaches over and pats her other hand on the table. "Ruth. I was joking. Really."

She nods. But the hand on her glass does not loosen its grip.

"I was." He reiterates. And he smiles crookedly. "I guess I'm out of practice. Telling jokes. Or," he says, "finding much humor these days." He picks up his pint, "Cheers." He says, but not very cheerily.

She tips her own towards him. "Cheers." They clink glasses, the muted sound of their glasses matching the atmosphere.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For this." He sweeps his eyes over the pub. Then back to her.

Her smile brightens. "You're welcome, Harry. But I do think that…"

He leans in a bit.

"Well. I thought... You said...I mean…"

"I did. And I will. Eat. As long as you join me."

She nods. "I will."

"But will you do one more thing?"

"OF course." She says quickly, But her hand tightens on the glass again.

"Try to relax. I'm not that intimidating, am I?"

"You're not. At all." She smiles at him.

His eyes open.

"I mean," she says at his expression, " when you need to be, you are. Which is a good thing." She lowers her voice. At work. Of course."

"That's not what I meant."

She stirs the cider, apparently fascinated by the swirling liquid.

"Ruth."

She looks up.

He begins to say something. Then stops. Picking up the menu he says. "Ploughman's Lunch. You?"

She nods. "That…will be fine. "

"Sure?"

She nods.

He nods back. And picking up his pint again, drains most of it down.

* * *

After lunch, they head back to the Grid. The further the distance from the pub, the quieter they become.

They draw closer to the Thames and settle on a bench there not far from Lambeth bridge, the Houses of Parliament almost directly across. The day is sunny, the air crisp and the sky a brilliant blue. In silence, they sit and look out towards the river, the riverboats making their way, some carrying the ubiquitous tourists, perhaps to the Tower of London, or farther down to Greenwich, or simply nowhere—for a leisurely cruise down the river.

A lone seagull swoops down, its wings flapping, casting a shadow below. Others pass by them. Some push buggies, parents tucking blankets around their little ones who sit quietly, eyes wide at the world which unfolds before them.

Harry watches as a young mother approaches pushing a buggy, her free hand holding her little girl's hand, not much older than the little one inside. They young woman stops then leans into the buggy at the toddler there, his peaked cap shading his eyes. He giggles up at her as she murmurs something to him. Smiling, she adjusts the blanket around him before straightening up again. She movies on, her children at her side. Harry stares at them until they are well past him. A sigh escapes.

Ruth places a hand on his arm. He doesn't speak. But his shoulders relax at her touch. Just a bit. But it's enough for her to notice.

And they sit there until the sun fades from the sky.

* * *

As soon as the doorbell rings, he knows who it is even before he actually opens the door. When he does, they stare across at each other.

"Catherine, " he says. And smiles.

"Hi." She says softly. And smiles back at him.

She stands there. And let's him search her face for a long moment.

Then he nods. "Come in."

She steps over the threshold, her eyes darting around. "Where's Scarlet?"

"My guard dog?" He smiles wryly then jerks his head towards the kitchen window behind him. "Outside. In the garden. Making fast friends, no doubt, with the neighbourhood hooligans."

Catherine's wry smile matches her father's. She stands in the foyer, her coat still on, her eyes everywhere but on him.

He moves to take her coat.

She glances at him then before looking away, again. "I can't…stay." She says.

His hand drops to his side. But he asks, "Have you had lunch?"

"Lunch? Dad, it's nearly dinner."

"Right." He says. "Then dinner."

She shakes her head. "I'm not hungry. I just wanted to stop in. "

He stares at her, his eyes taking in her thin frame and manages not to say anything. But his eyes speak volumes. "Can you at least stay for tea?"

She nods. "Yes. Thank you."

She follows him into his kitchen. His laptop is open on the counter, a folder next to it. As he passes by, he shuts the laptop, then turns the folder over as nonchalantly as possible. Reaching across for the kettle, he gives it a little shake, then nods, flicking it on.

For a moment, he stands there, watching his daughter scan his kitchen. And the over-turned file. When she catches his eye, she turns back towards the window where Scarlet is scampering about in the garden.

He busies himself with the mug and the milk. When the kettle clicks off, it nearly splits the silence as if it were a thunderclap. Catherine jerks a bit.

"Sit," he says to her, as softly as possible. She sits at the small round table, waiting for him to finish pouring the hot water into her mug.

"Aren't you going to have some?" She asks.

"Sure," he says, going back to the cabinet and grabbing another mug and another teabag.

They sit across one another. Both dip their teabags in unison; each raise the mugs to their mouths simultaneously. Neither speaks.

He swallows his sigh. And placing his mug down, says, "How is he?"

"He's home. With Mom. I mean."

"Ah. Yes. " And he brings the mug to his mouth, but doesn't drink it. He puts it back down. She stirs hers, not tasting it either.

"When's his court date?"

"Don't you know? She says, glancing over at the overturned file.

He almost smiles. "You don't miss much, do you? " He says quietly, but his eyes cannot hide the glimmer of pride. And the pain.

She nods. "Well, I'm glad you finally figured that out."

He swallows visibly.

" I mean…" She drops her gaze and shakes her head a bit.

"I know what you mean, Catherine. And I'm sorry. I am. More than I can say. I….underestimated you. In…so many …ways…" The last few words are barely spoken. But they are. And they hang there.

She stirs her tea. Then looks up at him. " I didn't come to …rail against you, Dad. I didn't. "

"I know. I know. God knows I would understand if you did."

Her spoon stops. And she lifts her eyes to him. "I…." And simply shakes her head.

"I'm glad that you came." He says, staring across at her, all pretence of drinking his tea gone.

"I ..wanted to… The other night. I mean."

"Why didn't you?"

"You know why." She says.

"Well." He says. And clears his throat. "I'm glad you came…today."

Her eyes flit to the small wall clock above .

"So soon?" He says, following her gaze.

She nods. And begins to stand.

He nods and stands as well.

"I'll keep in touch-"

"-Keep in touch."

"Yes." He says.

She smiles. "Yes. I will." Then picks up her mug.

"Leave it." He says. "I'll take care of it."

"Ok." She glances at the window. "Say hello and goodbye to Scarlet, will you?"

"I shall." He says.

He follows his daughter to the front door. Before she leaves, she turns back to him. He reaches for her and she lets him. They hug, their bodies barely touching. But each appear reluctant to pull away first. Finally, she does. A half smile. A nod. And she is gone.

He stands in the open doorway, watching until she is back in her car and puts it into gear. He watches until she turns the corner. He watches for a moment more, even though he can no longer see her. And it is only then that he slowly closes the door. He returns to the kitchen and picking up her mug, brings it to the kitchen sink. Pouring the untouched liquid down the sink, he watches it as it slowly disappears down the drain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sins of the Father**

-3-

The next day is Sunday and Harry's not sure how he feels about that. On one hand, he can sleep later than usual—not that he ever actually does. Still even as he awakens before dawn as usual, he does have the luxury of staying in bed as long as he likes. But the extra time also allows him to think, uninterrupted. And this he is sure, is not such a good thing after all.

He sighs. Scarlet, at the foot of his bed, opens one eye, and in moments is licking her master's face.

"Hey, girl." He says to her, his scruffy beard nuzzling her softer one. "_You_ love, me don't you?" She continues to wash his face. "Yes," he croons, using that voice reserved just for her when the two of them are alone. " You do, don't you? You want to go for a walk? Hmmm?"

Her tail beats a steady rhythm on the bed.

"Yes. I know you do." When he makes a move to get up, she begins to quiver with excitement. She jumps down and is soon walking in circles, pausing a bit and staring up at him each time she makes a complete revolution, only to begin her circular pattern again.

"I'm getting up. I am." He says, smiling down at her. Swiping at his wet face with his hand, he gets out of bed, shoving his feet in his slippers before shuffling off to the bathroom. Moments later, he is dressed in an old pair of sweats and slipping the leash over Scarlet's neck.

"C'mon, girl. Settle down." It takes him a few seconds for him to actually snap her leash on her, but he finally does. And together, man and dog make their usual trek out into the mist of the chilly morning, the dawn finally breaking over the horizon.

He walks Scarlet or rather, lets her take the lead, his mind barely taking in his surroundings.

_"He's ok."_

_"I'll be right there."_

_"I'm not sure if you should."_

_"I'm your parent, too... Don't cry. "_

Scarlet's bark jolts him. She's crouched down in front of him, her tail no longer wagging. He peers at the object just ahead. "Silly girl. It's just a leaf." Scarlet is not convinced, though. She approaches the fluttering leaf cautiously, her master just behind her. He chuckles. "Some watchdog, he says. But he's smiling.

Not long after, both are back inside, Scarlet crunching at her biscuit, and he standing at the kitchen window, once again looking at nothing. He pulls himself from the window and puts the kettle on. While he waits for it to boil, he goes over to his laptop still on his kitchen counter. And the file next to it. He flips over the last. A picture of a young man with wavy hair and grey eyes stares up at him. Opening the file, he begins to read.

A few hours later, showered, shaved and dressed in a pair of old corduroys and knit shirt, Harry snaps open his mobile. "Jane." He says a moment later.

"Harry." His ex-wife says, instantly recognizing his voice despite the many years apart. For some unfathomable reason, it never fails to stroke his ego.

"Yes," he says. Then he waits before asking. "How are you?"

"How do you think I am?"

He says nothing to that, only, "How's Graham?"

"He's fine."

"Fine?"

"Just a scratch, really. Why didn't you come to the hospital?"

He doesn't hesitate. "I thought it best not to."

"You thought it best." She says. "For you or for him?"

"Jane." He says a beat later. "How is he, really?"

Her tone softens. "He's doing fine, all things considering."

"I know his court date is—"

"We are hoping to get it dismissed. After all, he was the victim. In fact..."

"Perhaps that is not in his best interests. Dismissing his case."

"How can you say that? Have you no feelings at all for your son?"

"You know that's untrue."

"Frankly, Harry," she says," I'm not sure how you feel about anything. I haven't for years."

He sighs. " I simply meant—"

"I will tell him you called."

"Th—"

But the phone is dead.

When the phone rings seconds later, he reaches for it. "Jane. Look. I …"

"It's me." She says, and adds into the silence, "Ruth."

"Yes. I ...What is it?" He asks.

"I… I... I'm sorry. I can see I've called at a bad time. I just ... wanted to know how you and Graham were doing. Sorry." She says again.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. But I do." Then adds, "As you can see, still a bear."

"Cub." He hears her say a beat later.

In spite of himself, he smiles. "I'm glad you called. Really. It's been …..a difficult day, and it's not even noon."

"I'm sorry." She says, again.

"Don't be. I mean..for calling."

She pauses then says. "I'm heading to the National Gallery. ...and I thought that... Well, there's a new addition or two in the Impressionist collection...Post, actually..."

"Gauguin." He says.

"Harry, I had no idea that you're a fan of Impressionism."

"I'm not sure if I am or not. But I have been known to read the newspapers. On occasion."

He can feel her smile. "Would you like some company?" He asks. Then before she can actually answer, he says. "I know I would."

* * *

As planned, she's waiting for him next to _The Basin of San Marco on Ascension Day_ by Giovanni Antonio Canale, or more commonly known as Canaletto. Her coat is on the bench nearby, and she's wearing a soft, dusty blue jacket fitted at the waist which flares out a bit over her matching skirt. Long black leather boots complete her outfit. That and her soft dark hair, loose and skimming her shoulders, more than competes with the best in the gallery, he thinks.

He approaches soundlessly. Nevertheless, she turns around and smiles at him.

"Thought I was being very quiet. I must be slipping."

"It's your aftershave," she says. Then blushes enormously. He pretends not to notice. Drawing near, both lean in, quite interested in the work before them.

"Such detail," she says.

He nods. "Amazing. " He says.

"Yes. " She says. Then straightens just a bit. "There's a companion piece to this as well. " And as she turns, she bumps into him.

" Oh. Sorry." She says.

"It's fine." He says and means it.

"I only meant to …"

"It's fine." He says again. They move the few steps over to Canaletto's _A Regatta on the Grand Canal._ Both study it for quite a while, quietly comparing it with the previous work.

After a few minutes, he finally jerks his head to the next room. "Ready for the Impressionists?" He smiles.

"Yes." She nods. And smiles. She begins to walk in the direction of the next exhibit. But he stops, reaching for her coat still on the bench.

"Oh. " She says. "Silly of me. I'd forget my head if it weren't attached to the rest of me."

"Nonsense," he says, holding her coat out to her. "It's just that your marvelous head is less concerned with the mundane. That," he says, as she takes her coat from him, "is reserved for us mere mortals."

_The Mona Lisa_ has nothing on_ The Evershed Smile_.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for your lovely feedback and interest in this story. Also, warning: some coarse language ahead_

-4-

"Up you go!"

He swings the toddler off the ground and up. And in one smooth motion, the little boy is sitting on the man's strong shoulders. He reaches behind, shifting the boy a bit, his free hand supporting the child's back until sure the child is secure upon him.

_"Up!_ The toddler says gleefully. "_Up!_"

"Yes!" His father says, now holding the child by each leg. "Up! High! High in the sky! Now you're bigger than me!"

The child giggles. "_Me! Up! Sky!_"

The father chuckles, holding fast to his son, "Yes. You are. As high as the sky." Then he looks across the garden near the rose bushes. "Careful." He calls out to the little girl, not much bigger than the boy on his shoulders, as she draws closer to the prickly bushes.

She stops but not due to his words. Rather, her attention is drawn to something on the ground directly in front of the rose bush now in bloom. He watches her as she bends down, the sun glinting off her golden curls, murmuring at something down by her feet. Firmly supporting his son again, he begins to walk towards his daughter. Before he reaches her, she picks up something from the ground. "Catie, don't," he says too late.

"Daddy," the little girl says, palm extended to him. "Is it dead?"

He looks down at her hand, not much bigger than the bit of fluff she is holding. Still, except for the gentle wind ruffling its delicate feathers, the sparrow's head lies at an unnatural angle. "I'm afraid so," he tells her.

Her eyes fill. "But it's a baby!"

He swings the toddler off of his shoulders. "_Up_! The boy protests. "_Up!_"

"In a bit," his father answers him, then sits his son down on the grass near his feet. The man turns back to the girl. She's stroking the bird ever so gently.

"Catie," he says. "Give it to me." He holds his hand out.

"Can you fix it, Daddy?" She looks up at him with eyes very much like his, now wide and hopeful.

He sighs. ""No, I'm sorry. Once something is dead…."

She bursts into tears. "But it's a baby!"

"Come here." He tells her. And mindful of the dead bird in her hand, he crouches down, gently pulling his daughter to his side, his son still sitting on the grass next to him as well. "Hush….hush, Catie," he says to her. "The bird is at peace. You wouldn't want it to suffer now, would you?"

The girl continues to cry. The boy begins to whimper. "It's alright," he says to his son. "Everything's alright."

"Give me the bird, Catie," he says turning back to her. "Then we can say a prayer for it and put it to rest. Somewhere."

She stops crying for a moment. "Like we did with Fluffy?"

"Yes." He says. And both set of eyes flit over to the birdbath, not too far away from where they are.

She continues to stroke the bird. "Give it to me, Catie," he says again, his voice as gentle as her touch on the baby sparrow. She slides the bird from her open palm into her father's waiting one. Carefully, he closes his hand around it. And with his free hand, he helps the boy up, his daughter still at his side. Together, father and children walk over to the makeshift graveyard to put the small creature to rest.

* * *

Harry pours himself another shot of whiskey. But he doesn't drink it. Instead he flips his mobile open. "Catherine." He says. "Please call me when you have a chance. I ...Everything's fine. I just wanted to say hello. Er..Maybe we can have dinner. Soon. Alright. I know you're busy. I hope your film's going well...Ok. I hope to speak with you soon." He snaps it shut.

Going over to the fireplace, he kneels down and slides the screen open. Grabbing the poker nearby, he halfheartedly jabs at the dying embers. A few spark up. He looks over to the bellows, but shakes his head a bit, and simply closes the screen again. He takes a look at Scarlet, fast asleep in her basket not far from where he's standing. "I'm glad one of us can sleep," he says. One ear twitches, but her eyes remain closed.

Despite his words, it's not really late. But he knows once he makes his way upstairs and gets into bed, he will stare at the ceiling for hours. That is unless he drinks some more. A lot more. He looks over to the small table and his untouched glass. He goes back to it, but does not reach for it. Instead, he picks up the book next to it, and settling into his chair, opens the photo album again.

* * *

She's already there, earlier than usual, and looks up at him when he steps through the pods.

"Good morning." She says.

"Trying to make me look bad?" He says, smiling a bit.

She shakes her head and smiles a bit as well. "No. I just couldn't sleep."

"Something wrong?" He says, drawing closer to her.

She colors. "Oh, no. Nothing, nothing at all. It's ..." She picks a bound sheaf of papers from her desk. "Here's the annual JIC report."

"You sure, Ruth?" He asks, taking the report from her but not looking at it. Instead, he studies her face. "You're not ill, are you?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine. Really. . Um...How's ...Graham?"

He sighs. "Haven't heard from him, which is no surprise. Or Catherine..which is, actually."

"I'm sure she'll call you …in time."

He nods.

She nods back.

"Well, then," he says. "You'll know where to find me."

He goes into his glass cubicle of an office, feeling her eyes on his back.

A moment later, she is standing at his door.

"Harry?"

"Come in." He says, looking up at her. "You sure you're not ill?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine. Really, It's just that..."

"What?"

"I...don't want you to think that I..."

"Think what?"

She shakes her head.

"Ruth. Close the door and sit down."

She does.

"Now, take a breath and start from the beginning."

"I wonder how many times you've said the same to me."

He smiles back at her. "Well, it's usually effective. Why change now?"

She laughs a bit, her dimples flashing.

"So?"

"Actually, it's …you."

He stares across at her.

"Well. Not you. Not exactly. It's just that. ...I really want to..".

"Ruth, just tell me." His voice is very soft.

She takes another breath. "The reason why I was up most of the night was…is... I 'm trying to think of some way that I can help you with your children. But I know it's none of my business.. Shall I shut up now, Harry?"

"Thank you."

At her look of consternation, he says quickly. "No. Don't. I mean shut up. No. I mean…Oh, wonderful," He says almost under his breath, "Now you have me sounding like you."

The look on her face doesn't much change. "Sorry. " He says and shakes his head. Then he looks directly at her. "What I mean to say is that I am truly sorry my personal problems are causing you to lose sleep. But selfish bastard that I am, I'm glad you're ...thinking ...of ...m...Well. Thank you for that. It means...more than I can properly say. "

She nods then sighs. "But what can I _do_? There must be something I can _do."_

"You're already doing it." He says softly, smiling across at her.

She shakes her head. "But I haven't _done_ anything."

"On the contrary. You have. And I'm truly touched by your concern. Again, thank you."

"I could," she says, almost as if she hasn't heard him, "Make you dinner. " Her mouth clamps shut all at once.

"Dinner?"

"Or...we could go to lunch." She says quickly. "Like the other day..you know. Lunch." She shifts a bit in her chair.

"Are you a good cook?"

"I..."

"I'm joking, Ruth. Again." He sighs. "I really must work on my delivery, it seems."

She smiles at him. "I've never had any complaints. I mean, about my cooking."

"I'm glad to hear that. Still, I do have a question for you." And he leans in, a serious look on his face.

"What is it?" She asks, leaning in as well, her eyes quite round.

"Shall I bring red or white?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Sins of the Father**

-5-

Sitting at her kitchen table, Ruth goes over her shopping list for her dinner on Saturday with Harry. And even though she's made this particular dinner countless times and actually needs no list, she finds herself writing down each and every item as if she were a novice cook trying out a new recipe for the very first time.

"Let's see..., Chicken breasts... Mushrooms. Lemon..maybe two. No..one. No. Two. Just in case. Right. Wine...Rosé should be good. Rosemary. Hmmm... Breadcrumbs. Then I need..." She stops, realising that she's been muttering to herself. That and her hand holding the pencil is trembling just a bit.

_Take a deep breath, Ruth and start at the beginning. " _She smiles at the familiar voice in her head. Then putting the pencil down, she goes over to her refrigerator and opens it for the umpteenth time that evening and stares at nothing in particular. She shuts the door. Taking a deep breath again, she goes over to her list, sits down and picks up her pencil. Her hand is steady. She reads the list again, then puts it down. She wonders if candles would be too much.

She takes another breath. And starts at the beginning. Again.

* * *

After he rings off with the solicitor, Harry rings his former wife.

"Jane." He says, her name the usual preamble to any unavoidable conversation they have about their children.

"Harry." She responds in kind, equally brief.

"How did it go today?"

"I'm sure you already know. "

"Jane." He says again, mentally counting to ten.

"After all, "she goes on, "you engaged him. As such, I'd rather you speak with him directly. And I'm sure, in fact, you have already."

"Yes. I did speak with him." _Eleven, twelve, thirteen_...

"Then why are you calling me?"

_Fourteen, fif…_ "Why? He's my son, for god's sake! And will neither see nor talk to me! And I want to know—"

"l will say this. The solicitor is good, so thank you for that. But I think that in the future, you should address all of your questions to him rather than to me."

"Put Graham on." He says between clenched teeth.

"He's resting."

"Put him on. I insist."

"You are in no position to insist upon anything. But I will tell him that you called. I always do. However, I cannot help it if he does not wish to speak to you."

"I expect a call from him this evening," he says, his stomach now clenching as well. And he rings off, ending the call before she does. He fails however, to derive any real measure of satisfaction from doing so.

Going over to his liquor cabinet in his den, he yanks the lovely cherry wood cabinet door open, nearly wrenching it from its hinges. "Bloody woman! Would it be so hard to…" The offbeat thumping of his dog's tail draws his attention to Scarlet in her basket. Ears flattened, her eyes are riveted upon her master. "No. Not you. _You_ didn't do anything." He says to her. In response, Scarlet thumps her tail a bit less nervously, and her ears prick up a bit. Still, she eyes him uncertainly. "It's _her._" Harry goes on. Always _her._" But even as the words spill out, he is well aware that the situation is much more complicated than that. And has been for many, many years.

He turns his attention back to the now open liquor cabinet, and stares at his collection of fine malt liquors, whiskey and brandy. Nothing looks appealing to him. "Sod it all," he says, closing the cabinet door more carefully this time. "Oh, go back to sleep." He says to Scarlet, her head now tilted to one side, still staring up at him. "Go on. Go back to sleep." Slowly, she puts her head back down, eyes still focused upon him.

He settles into his easy chair and reaching for his mobile, flips it open again. "Catherine. I know you're busy," he says leaving another voice message, "but I really would like to—"

"Dad."

"You're there. " He finds himself suddenly at a loss for words.

"I'm sorry. I was going to call you this evening. I was, really. In fact, I…."

"What is it?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine. What is it?"

She sighs. "Aside from Graham?"

"What now? I just spoke with your mother. Tell me there's something else that –"

She sighs. "He's just so screwed up, Dad."

"I've ...never heard you …talk about him…like that."

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"

Harry doesn't answer.

"And I feel like a rotten sister for saying so. "

"Oh, Catie," he says, her childhood name slipping out. "You're nothing of the sort."

Neither says anything for a moment.

"Is it too late for me to come over, Dad?"

"Of course you can. It's never too late."

* * *

He creeps up the stairs, the nightlight on the landing for the children illuminating the area, the three bedrooms in the modest house now filled with each member of his family. He passes their room –if he can call it that—that he still shares with his wife. The bedroom door is closed. But the ghostly light from the television creeps out from behind the closed door, the sound muted, emitting just the slightest hum in the otherwise stillness of the hour. He knows she knows that he's home; he knows as well there will be no acknowlegement of his arrival, warm or otherwise. He passes it for now, coming to his son's room, the door slightly ajar. Taking a quick peek inside, he sees the young boy asleep, clutching his favorite stuffed animal, Paddington Bear. He watches the boy for a few moments, the child's face slack, uncreased, peaceful, the rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he is actually of this world.

He steps out carefully, unnecessarily; his son is a heavy sleeper. Then makes his way to the last door. Also ajar. A child of his also there. But that is all he is sure of as he draws near.

Soundlessly, much more so than most men, he steps one foot over the threshold. She lies on her back, her arms at her sides, the hall nightlight casting just enough light for him to see her face. And her tightly closed eyelids. He steps in.

"Catie." He says ever so softly.

The only response is her eyes; they flutter, and then shut even more tightly than before. "Catie," he says, coming closer. "I'm sorry I missed your birthday party."

Her eyes remain shuttered. She stays unnaturally still, her arms rigid at her sides. Unlike her brother, and other evenings, tonight her arms are empty, her bed devoid of any stuffed animals. Yet her dresser is lined with an assortment of stuffed animals of every species. The largest of these, a raccoon, a silky pink bow around its neck, sits on her chair in the corner of her room. It looks brand-new. Untouched. Unloved.

"Catie?" He says, her bed creaking a bit when he sits on the edge of it. "We can spend tomorrow together. Just the two of us. I'll take you to the zoo. Or wherever. Whatever you would like. You'd like that. Wouldn't you?"

Her eyes open and stare up at the ceiling. "You missed my birthday, Daddy."

"I know. I'm sorry. Very sorry. But I'm here, now."

She turns to him, then. "But my party! You missed it! And you said you wouldn't! And now it's over!"

"Yes. I know. I'm sorry. I just couldn't.''

"Why not?" And she fixes eyes, so very much like his, upon him.

He sighs a bit. "It was...an...emergency, Catie. You know what that is, don't you?"

"You always say that!"

He sighs again. "I know….But it was. And I'm sorry. I am. Can you forgive me?"

"But now I have to wait another whole year! And that's not fair!"

He nods. "Yes. I know. But we can celebrate tomorrow. Just the two of us." And he touches her arm gently.

"Ok." She says. "But you still missed my birthday. And it's still not fair."

"You're right. It isn't. But sometimes," he sighs, his voice a bit husky now, "Life is …not fair." And looks away for a moment.

He feels her hand on his. And when he looks back at her, she says, "I like my gift, Daddy."

Both of them look over to the raccoon on the chair.

"Would you like me to bring him to you?"

She nods. "But it's not a him. It's a her."

"Oh."

"She has a pink ribbon!"

"Right. " He says, handing it to her.

She takes it and tucks it under her arm.

He smiles down at her. "Perhaps we'll see a real one tomorrow at the zoo. Would you like that?"

She nods, her eyes beginning to close, her arm now locked onto her raccoon.

"Goodnight, Catie," he says. "Sleep tight." And leaning down, he kisses her on the forehead just before he tiptoes out of her bedroom. And slowly makes his way back to the room he shares with his wife down the hall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Wish they were mine, but Kudos has first dibs. *sigh***

As ever, many thanks for feedback. And I hope you enjoy the following :)

-6-

It's Saturday. And she's putting the finishing touches on her table for her guest. In lieu of candles, she has placed a white ceramic, open weaved basket in the middle of the small table in the kitchen. A fine linen cloth is tucked inside ready for the lemon poppyseed rolls, now warming in the oven. She has also decided after careful deliberation, to set the kitchen table instead of the one in the dining room, hoping for a less formal dinner, perhaps a truly congenial one. But now she shakes her head, hoping that her choice is neither presumptuous nor obvious. Nor overly optimistic for that matter. She glances up at the kitchen clock; he is due in seven minutes, and as such, she understands that there is no more time to second guess any of her choices.

Then she lifts the cover from her simmering chicken marsala once again, and once again, the savory aroma wafts up, filling her cozy kitchen. She hopes it tastes as good as it promises to be. Replacing the lid, she looks up at the clock again. _Five minutes._ Clearly, he is not late. Not at all. And even, she tells herself, if he _were _a few minutes later than that, it wouldn't actually mean that he _was_ late. Or somehow not coming, always a possibility with his line of work. And hers. And in that vein, she supposes, she would certainly know if there were —

The doorbell rings.

She tugs at her knitted dark blue jumper unnecessarily; it fits quite nicely over her new black trousers. She goes over to the door, smoothing her hair, loose and glossy, falling in soft waves about her face. "Coming!"

She opens the door.

He's there. Not late. On time. Actually a few minutes early. And with bottle of wine in one hand, flowers in the other. And smiling. "Rosé, ok?"

"More than ok." She says, her smile matching his. And then he hands her the bouquet.

"They're lovely, Harry." She says, looking down at the bunch of pink roses, slightly opened and surrounded by baby's breath, all nestled in the freshest and purest of foliage. "Thank you." As she stares down at them, her cheeks immediately take on a pinkish hue, either from the thoughtfulness of his gift, or the color of the roses casting a shadow on her face; perhaps even a combination of both. "I should put these in water right away." She says. "Oh, please. Come in," she adds, finally looking back up at him, still standing in the threshold, the bottle of wine still in hand.

Once he does, she closes the door behind him. "Let me take your coat."

He puts the bottle down on the small table there in the hall, and shrugs off his coat. "I'll do it," he says. "You have your hands full." And he smiles at her, watching as she breathes in the scent of the flowers again. "In here?" He asks a moment later, gesturing to the closet in the hall.

"Yes, that's fine." She says. "And I'll put these in water." And turning, she heads into the kitchen and begins to rummage a bit under her sink for a vase.

When she stands up, vase in hand, he's standing in the kitchen with the wine bottle.

"Oh!" She says.

"Sorry." He says, "Didn't mean to startle-"

"You didn't." She says. "Well, not really," she adds.

He smiles at that. Then asks as she fills the vase with water. "Can I do something?"

"Well, um...you could open the wine. "

He nods then looks at her.

"Second drawer to the right." And she moves over a bit as he reaches past her, opening the drawer. "Right," she says, as he grabs hold of the corkscrew.

In seconds, he uncorks the bottle.

"Oh." She says. "Let me get you some wine glasses."

"We could use the ones on the table," he says.

"Right." She says again and nods towards them. As he reaches for the glasses, she begins to unwrap the flowers. Separating them a bit, she snips the ends of the stems with a pair of scissors whilst he pours her a glass of wine. He waits, holding her glass for her.

"Oh, sorry. Just let me..."And she fusses with the flowers for a moment before finally setting them in the vase. "Thank you." She says, taking the glass from him. "They're so lovely. I wanted to get them into water right away. "

"I'm glad you like them," he says. "But they pale next to how lovely you look this evening."

Her blush deepens. "Thank you," she says, glancing down a bit, then up at him again.

"You're welcome," he replies. "And thank you as well for inviting me."

"My pleasure," she says.

Thus, coat hung up, flowers arranged, wine poured and social amenities observed, the only thing left for them to do is raise their glasses.

"Cheers." he says.

"Cheers," she says back, clinking her glass with his. A bit sloshes out, almost splashing him. Nimbly, he takes a step back.

"Oh! Sorry. I..."

"It's fine." He says. "Really."

Each take a sip.

"Good." They say. Then stare at one another a moment longer. Finally he says, "That smells delicious." He looks over to the large cast iron skillet on the cooker.

"It's chicken marsala. I hope that you…like it…"

"Ruth," he says. "I'm sure I will, even if it's only half as delicious as it smells."

She smiles, her dimples showing. And suddenly they start talking as if it were simply an ordinary Saturday, and they always have chicken marsala in her kitchen and always share a bottle of wine between them as well.

* * *

_Ruth's Chicken Marsala:_

_Chicken breasts_

_Mushrooms_

_Lemon_

_ Wine_

_Water/chicken stock_

_Ground Pepper_

_Salt (optional)_

_Breadcrumbs_

_Rosemary (optional)_

_In heavy large skillet (preferably cast-iron), sauté mushrooms (domestic is fine) in oil; (__Ruth uses polyunsaturated.)__ Remove, set aside. Nex__t, __in same pan, place breaded chicken breasts in hot oil and fry until golden brown. Remove, drain well on paper towels; blot excess oil as well. Cool pan; then carefully pour off fat. Take care not to lose the little bits of brown bits, etc., left in pan as these will flavor the pot. Next, add wine, chicken stock /water and lemon in pan. Using a wooden spoon, loosen the bits of meat, etc. Stir. Finally, return mushrooms and chicken to pan. Cover and braise on top of cooker for at least 45 minutes or until tender, adjusting liquid/seasoning. Add rosemary if desired._

_Serve with potatoes (your choice/style although Ruth seems to like baked potatoes with the above); a nice leafy green salad and bread of your choice as well._

_LAST: Serve to special guests...like H_arry.

:)


	7. Chapter 7

-7-

_ Saturday Night_

The fire is dying down. And Harry, in a red leather, wing back chair, stifles a yawn. He looks over to Ruth sitting on the cream-colored love seat, pushed against the wall.

"Sorry," he says." It's not the company, it's ..."

"The fire." Ruth says, yawning as well. "Lack of oxygen." She adds.

He nods. "And the hour, too." He pauses. "I'm afraid I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Nonsense."

He smiles at that. "Thank you again for this evening. It was….wonderful."

"My pleasure."

"Hmmmm..." he says, now stretching his legs and stocking feet towards the fire. "As much as I'm enjoying this, I think I should be getting back. I know I've imposed enough upon your…hospitality."

"Not at all. I was glad to do it. Really." And she stretches her bare feet out towards the dying embers as well.

They sit there in silence a minute more. Neither makes a move to get up.

"I saw Catherine last night." He says suddenly.

Ruth straightens up a bit. "Did you?"

He nods. "Yes, I just didn't want to bring it up before."

"It went badly?"

"On the contrary. But ….you went to so much trouble, and I didn't want my personal... Well." He says and nothing more.

"Harry." She says, no longer drowsy at all, "I didn't ask because I didn't want to pry. That and I wanted you to relax. But I'm truly interested in… Whatever you want to share. With me."

"Thank you for that. But I just don't want to bore you. Or burden you." Then he adds, "You deserve much more than that."

"You are," she says, now completely awake, "the least boring person I know."

He smiles wryly, "Burden then."

She shakes her head. "Never. And If I can in some small way…."

"-There is nothing small about you, Ruth," he says. Then stretching a bit more, he adds, "And you seem to know exactly what to do, don't you." He stands up, slipping on his shoes.

"Me?" She says, getting up as well, " I'm…so...clumsy and inept. And sometimes-"

Looking directly at her, he says, "You? You're 'practically perfect in every way.' "

She stares at him. "You're quoting Mary Poppins?" And she bites her lip.

"Is that where's that's from? It seemed...familiar." He shrugs a bit sheepishly. "I must have..."

"Watched it when they were young. Your children, I mean."

He shakes his head. "I doubt that. I was rarely home. Well," he says again, into the silence, "I really should be getting home."

"I'll get your coat."

He follows her, and then taking his coat from her, puts it on.

Both stand in front of the door soon after, her hand resting on the doorknob.

"Thank you again... for this. Really."

Again...it was my pleasure. Really."

Both smile at one another. And as they do, something impalpable, yet undeniable, passes between them. And the space between them grows smaller, hardly noticeable at all except to them. And if asked, neither would be able to say who leaned in towards the other first. But a moment later, he kisses her on the cheek. And she is smiling at him, squeezing his arm. And he is smiling at her. And they stand like that for a long moment.

And then he is gone.

* * *

_Sunday, early afternoon_

"Ruth," he says into his mobile, sitting in the rented car, motor off and a few houses down the street from the house. "I wanted to thank again for last night. ...I would have called you earlier, but didn't want to disturb you...I didn't want to ...wake you. After all the work you did yesterday...for our...the dinner. ...Anyway," he says, cap pulled low over his brow, his eyes never leaving the house up the block, "thank you again. I know I sound like a broken record, but you ...well, thank you. Oh... and I'm not home right now, so best to leave a voice mail if you need to speak to me... well, hope you're resting...or otherwise enjoying the day. "

He rings off. And checks that his mobile is set to vibrate. It is. His hands, now very still, rest upon the steering wheel, the only movement his eyes blinking now and then. Jane's car is still there. But according to Catherine, her mother will soon be leaving. To meet her daughter in fact, for lunch. He checks the time. 25 minutes. Not long now. Not long at all.

* * *

"Catherine! You are to keep a civil tongue when you speak to me. Or anyone else for that matter."

"Just like I said! You're a bully!" And pushing her plate away from her, she gets up, her chair scraping against the floor. In moments the sound of running footsteps is heard overhead. A moment later, a door slams.

Despite himself, he jerks a bit at that. "What is _wrong_ with that girl?" He asks, knowing no satisfactory answer is forthcoming, especially from his wife who is now glaring at him.

"What do you expect?" She says from across the kitchen table. "You're never here. And when you are-"

"-What does that have to do with allowing a 13 year old to do as she pleases?"

"She almost 14."

"Still a child. And she simply cannot-"

"A young lady. And going through a difficult phase. And if you were home more often, you might understand-"

"-I understand. I understand that she thinks she can do whatever -"

"-You yell at her." She says, getting up and bringing her plate to the sink.

"I do...did not...yell._ Sh_e yelled. At me. How could you not have heard that? I merely said..."

"You _ordered_. You are very good at giving orders." She begins to run the water, rinsing off her plate.

"I'm her father," he says to her back, raising his voice over the running water. "Her _father_. And I'm going to do what I believe is right for my daughter even if you...let her do whatever she pleases."

His wife turns and faces him. "How dare you? How dare you say that?"

He stares back at her. "Are you telling me that you actually approve of how she dresses and that..that make-up?" He gestures towards his face with disgust. "She looks like a...a..."

"It's a phase." She says. "A _phase._ You do understand the meaning of that word?" She turns her back to him again.

In response, he raises his voice even more. "Is that what we're calling bad manners now? A _phase_? And wearing those ...clothes? If you can call it that. And what kind of a father would I be if I let her run around looking like that?" In the silence, he continues, "Someone has to protect her. She cannot be allowed to run around. Do as she pleases. Be wild."

"She's not wild," she says, finally shutting off the water, before facing him again.

"You cannot tell me that you approve of how she dresses, the makeup she wears and ...how she speaks to us."

"Yelling at her will only exacerbate the situation. You need to-"

"-Don't tell me what I need to do with my own daughter, Jane!"

A knife clatters on a plate. He looks suddenly to the table. His son, still sitting there, stares up at his father. "If you're finished, Graham," he says much more softly, "you should get started on your homework."

His son shakes his head, not quite meeting his father's eye. "I don't have any."

"None? Are you sure?"

"Harry." Jane says, "If he says he has no homework, then he doesn't."

"Fine." He says under his breath. "Fine." Then walking out of the kitchen he goes over to the front door and steps out into the night. And stares up into the night sky.


	8. Chapter 8

- 8 -

_Graham_

Less than 20 minutes later, the garage door opens. And seconds later, Harry watches as his ex-wife drives away from the house in the opposite direction from him, his cap and rented car not necessary after all. He waits another 10 minutes before starting the car again. Pulling up closer to the house, he turns the car off once more, staring at the door before getting out.

Graham, he knows, is inside.

Unsurprisingly, no one answers the door when he rings the bell. "Graham?" Harry says through the closed door. "Open up. Please. It's your father," he says and knocks a bit more forcefully than he had intended. After a few more seconds and utter silence from the other side of the door, he simply picks the lock. Not surprisingly, it doesn't take him long at all.

"Graham," he says, entering, " I know you're home."

The house is still. Yet not only does he know his son is home, he senses he is nearby.

And he is right.

Stepping past the hall, he turns to the right towards the living room. Sitting in an easy chair next to the window is his son, wearing a worn black t shirt and jeans. His feet are bare. No socks. The light from the window reveals intelligent grey eyes which look impassively upon the intruder.

"Graham." Harry says, already knowing the answer, "why didn't you answer the door?"

"You're in, aren't you?" He replies then turns his attention to the nearby window.

Harry swallows his sigh. Then sits down on the couch there, facing the chair. "How are—"

"Why are you here? " Graham asks, running his hand though his wavy hair, very much like his mother's when she was a young woman.

"I wanted to see you. See how you are. "

He stares at his father then asks, "Satisfied?"

This time Harry does sigh. "Not really." He says softly. So softly that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the room becomes very loud.

"Well, that's s nothing new." Graham says and goes back to looking out the window.

" No. That''s not what I meant. I meant only…"

"I can't believe my sister put you up to this," he says, still looking out the window. "What did you say to her to get her to play her part in this?"

"Your sister is worried about you, yes. But my coming here has nothing to do with her."

"Right." He says, still not turning around.

"I simply decided that-"

"You decided. Right."

"Look, son..."

The young man's head jerks back to his father, his eyes narrowed, one hand at his side clenched.

"Graham." Harry amends. "I wanted to see you. See how you're doing."

"And you have. " He stands up and when he does, Harry sees just how thin his son is, the jeans barely riding on his narrow hips, his chest almost concave under his shirt.

"Are you…have you had lunch? I can take you anywhere you'd like to -"

"Please.. Just go... Dad." The last is emphasized in such a way that Harry cringes.

"I will," he says. "But not before I -"

"What?" " Despite the slouch in his posture, the eyes are alert and fix upon his father.

"If you need ….anything. Anything. I _am_ worried about you. A great deal. In fact. I-"

Graham turns and heads towards the kitchen.

He follows his son. But doesn't go inside the room. Instead he stands in the threshold, watching.

The young man leans against the counter, his thin frame incongruous in the cheery kitchen, posters of croissants with assorted jams and jellies on the walls.

"I know I haven't always been there for you. " He says still in the threshold. "But that doesn't mean-"

"Too little, too late," he says, reaching into a cabinet for a glass. Turning the faucet on, he fills the glass.

"I'm sorry for that. I am. But I'm trying to—"

"Don't. Just don't." He sets the glass on the counter without drinking it. Then he brushes past Harry and heads back into the living room. Harry follows closely behind. In no time they are back where they started: Harry staring at his son standing next to the same chair by the window. And just as before, he looks out the window, his back to his father.

"Graham."

The ticking of the clock is louder than ever.

Moments later the front door opens. Then closes.

* * *

Less than an hour or so, Harry is sitting at the Anchor, an historic pub on the south side of the Thames. One pint down, and another seconds from being drained, his phone vibrates against his chest. Reaching for it, he flips it open.

"Harry?"

"Ruth." He says.

"Harry? Are you there?"

"Yes. " And he finishes the rest of his pint. Then wipes his lips. "In a manner of speaking."

"Where are you?" She asks, her voice taking on an edge.

"I'm…in a pub." And he holds his mobile up towards the general direction of the bar.

"I see." She says.

"You mean you can hear. Not see."

She ignores that. "Are you..alone?"

"Ah…alone? Well. That's the issue, isn't it?" He picks up his pint again and manages to get a few more drops out of it.

"Stay there."

"What?"

"I'm coming. I don't like the way you sound. At all."

"Ruth. I'm not very good company now."

"Unless you tell me not to come... I'm coming."

"Don't come."

She doesn't say anything right away, then asks, "What happened? "

He sighs. "I saw Graham today. And...hence, the pub. And my mood."

"Harry ...please. Just wait for me there. Yes?"

"I'm all right." He says. But he doesn't tell her not to come again.

"You don't sound all right. Just tell me where you are."

He pauses then finally says, " At the Anchor."

"In Southwark?"

"Yes."

"I'm on my way."

"Ruth."

But she has already rung off. He snaps his mobile shut, and slips it back into his shirt pocket. Then pushing back his chair, he walks over to the bar and orders another pint.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Dear Readers: Thank you for your wonderful feedback; it means so much! :)**_

**Disclaimer: Kudos owns Spooks and its characters, but the following reality (including the coarse language below) is mine.**

-9-

_Ruth_

Minutes before Ruth arrives at the Anchor, Harry drains his third pint. Deciding to hit the Gents before ordering another, he drapes his coat on the chair for her in case she arrives before he returns.

She does. And for one panicky moment when she first enters the pub, she doesn't see him at all. Quickly scanning the room and moments from stepping into the adjoining room, she sees his coat, its hallmark velvet collar turned towards her as if done so deliberately.

Giving a sigh of relief, she heads towards the small table, one hand reaching out towards the collar.

"You're here," he says appearing suddenly, not quite looking at her.

"I am." She says, withdrawing her hand from the collar. "And you still are, too."

"Is that an admonishment?" He asks taking his seat again.

"I didn't mean it as such," she says, still standing, "I only meant—"

"I told you I'm not very good company." He meets her eyes and when he does, she sees that they are slightly bloodshot and red rimmed. And if she didn't know better, she would be as certain that Harry Pearce had been crying as well as drinking. But she decides to reserve judgement on the former and instead, merely sits down across from him.

"I'm sorry." He says, his eyes dropping to his empty glass again. "For being a bastard. Being a bad father. Being a bad husband. And now..." He shakes his head. "I seem to be quite good at pissing people off. All under the heading of being a selfish bastard, in fact. "

In response, she places her hand on his.

He doesn't move except to lift his eyes back up to her. "For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry. You deserve better. So much better...than...…a stroppy adolescent." And he shakes his head once again.

"That's absurd." She says crispy, her hand still on his. "You are nothing of the kind."

"What is absurd is my inability to …" He shakes his head again. "No. I'm going to spare you the mind-numbing details. Suffice to say, my son refuses to speak with me. Or even look at me for that matter." He picks up his empty glass with his other hand. "What will you have?

"Perhaps a cup of tea."

"Ah…And I'm to have to have coffee, I suppose?"

""Have you eaten anything?" She asks and pats his hand a bit before removing hers from his.

"Harry?"

He shrugs heavily. "Does it matter? Really?"

"Of course it does. One must eat. "

His eyes flit to his empty glass.

"Why don't you come back to my place, and I'll make us an omelet . We can have tea and coffee there. I can—"

"No."

Her eyes open.

"You've done enough for me."

"I'm certain that you would do the same for me. Quite certain."

He stares at her then. She stares back. He manages a half smile, a slight nod.

"Come on." she says. "Let's get the hell out of here. "

* * *

It takes a while, but the walk to the Underground is not as bad as she feared it would be. In fact, she reckons that Harry isn't drunk. Not exactly. But his step is heavy, either from the three pints he drank, the lack of food or his mood, or a combination of all three. As such, the trek is slow going. Still, they do make progress, Harry saying little except to explain that he had dropped off his rented car earlier and then had taken a cab close to the South Bank. And that from there, he had simply began to walk until he wound up at the Anchor.

"That's a nice walk. Good exercise." She says blandly.

"Exercise was not exactly on my mind." He replies, looking straight ahead.

"Yes. Well." She says, walking as close to him as she dares.

He stops for an instant, then turns towards her. "_I am_ sorry for ...everything."

"Please," she says, stopping as well. "Don't be. I wanted to come."

"Why?" He asks, his eyes surprisingly alert. And she realizes, the rest of him suddenly cold sober.

"I..."

He sighs. "Once more, I'm sorry," he says and resumes walking. "Ungentlemanly of me. I shouldn't have put you on the spot."

"I hope taking the tube is ok." She says only, catching up with him. "I was shopping. Actually, window shopping on Bond Street when I returned your call. Looking at a pair of shoes," she adds. "And I thought that... "

"Ruth. Please. Don't apologise. For anything. I'm the one who should. For interfering with your day. Your shopping."

She shrugs, "Actually, I owe you a thank you." At his look of puzzlement, she adds, "Too expensive." And she smiles.

He nods a bit and almost smiles as well. "Well. It appears being a selfish bastard has its moments."

She laughs softly. "You're not." She says. "Really." Then adds, her tone bright, as they finally enter the Underground, "taking the tube with you is ..quite nice. I don't think we've done so before. Have we?"

"You know we haven't," he says with a hint of a smile. Then stops as he opens his wallet and fishes out an Oyster card.

Her eyes open at that. "I didn't think that you had one. Actually."

"I have, Miss Evershed, been known to use public transportation. On occasion. Special occasions, that is." And this time he actually smiles at her just a little.

"Well, then," she says, slapping down her card on the scanner and shooting him a look as if she were throwing down the gauntlet. "So be it."

Smiling the the first genuine smile of the day, he smacks his card down as well. "So be it." He says as well.

"Of course," she says when he joins her on the other side, "we do need to take a a bus or cab to my place."

He nods, still smiling, "Let's take a cab. " Then pats his pocket. "Rich Uncle."

"Well. then," she says, dimples, flashing, "So be it. Again."

* * *

By by the time they return back to her place, it is more than an hour later. The sky had become overcast and the day, what was left of it, considerably colder. In actuality, dusk was hard at their heels.

"Perhaps, " Harry says to Ruth after paying the driver, "this is not such a good idea, after all."

Her hand stills on the vehicle's handle, and she looks at him seated next to her.

"I mean... You've done.."

"Harry. It's just an omelet. Besides," she says, opening the door, " I'm going to put you to work as well."

He tilts his head at her for that.

"How good are you at scrambling eggs?"


	10. Chapter 10

-10-

After washing up, he returns to the kitchen and eyes the ingredients lined up on the counter: pepper, onion, potato, mushrooms, paprika, and fresh dill.

"You did say….an omelet?" He asks.

She pauses from slicing the mushroom and smiles. "Told you I'd put you to work."

Nonplussed, he looks at her.

"In the fridge, second shelf to the right. Three, please."

"Ah..." He says. And opening the fridge, retrieves three eggs then stands there.

"Second shelf on the right," she says, throwing some finely chopped mushrooms into the small skillet and hot oil. She points her chin at the cabinet to her left.

"Right." Opening the cabinet, he grabs a bowl and then cracks the eggs one at a time. Quite expertly, too.

Smiling, she glances over at him. "Nice job. No shells."

He looks inordinately pleased. "Yes. Not only am I able to use public transportation, I can actually crack eggs, too."

"I see." She says. "And I bet you can actually cook as well."

"Actually, I…can. Shall I add some milk, then?"

"It's your omelet," she says, smiling. "Help yourself."

He rewards her with a small smile, then taking some milk out from the fridge, pours a bit into the eggs. Picking up a fork, begins to beat the eggs.

"No whisk?" She says, glancing at him, before giving the cast iron pan on the cooker a little shake.

"Don't need one," he says, beating the eggs into a frothy batter.

"I see that," she says, removing the lightly sautéed mushrooms with a slotted spoon, setting them aside.

Reaching over for the salt and pepper, he brushes against her.

"Oh!" She says.

"Sorry." he says, standing stock-still, salt and pepper in hand. "I just wanted the-"

"Oh, that's fine. It's only that I just thought of it."

"Sorry?"

"An apron. For you." She eyes his light tan shirt, open at the collar.

He takes a look at the apron she's wearing, stamped with three cats on the front: one ginger, one black and white, and the last, a grey one; without exception, all wear haughty expressions. 'Dogs have owners; Cats have staff, ' " he reads out loud. "I think I'll pass. "

She laughs.

"Not that I don't like cats," he adds hurriedly, looking down at her cat's bowl on the floor. "I'm... um... just more of a dog person."

"So no apron, then?" And she smiles, her dimples showing.

"Yes."

"Good thing," she says, slicing off a bit of onion, "because that one has cats on it as well. Wearing bonnets."

His eyes open.

"Gift from my godchild," she says and begins to dice the onion.

"Ah," he says.

She laughs. Then picking up a red pepper, begins to finely chop that as well.

He watches her for a few moments, then asks, "Speaking of which, where's your cat? Fidget, is it?"

"Asleep. On my bed. Oh!" She says again. "Scarlet."

He smiles. "Taken care of. My neighbor. But thank you for asking. "

"Right." She says, adding the onion to the pan. "You did tell me that a while back. See, with a cat, it's a bit easier."

He nods. "I suppose so. Not having to walk them. But that might not be such a good thing for me, after all." And he pats his stomach. "Exercise, you know."

She smiles and then adds the chopped pepper.

He looks over to her small table. "Shall I set the table, then?"

"Please. She nods, giving the pan a little shake again. The peppers and onions sizzle, the aroma filling the air.

"That's making me hungry." He breathes in appreciatively, his eyes riveted on the skillet.

"Table. Harry. Now."

He looks back at her, and reaching for a plate, says. "Yes, Guv."

"Guv?" She says, and then laughs. "Hmmm...Guv. That has real possibilities."

"If you dare call me that tomorrow..." he says.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Still, now that you mention..."

"Ruth." he says. "If you value your job..."

She bites her lip and picks up the small potato. And knife suspended above the the potato, she begins to laugh in earnest.

He stares at her, a mock glare on his face. And seconds later, joins her.

* * *

"And now, honored guests, let us all show our appreciation to our budding scientists- and our future!" The headmaster begins to clap with enthusiasm. The large room, mostly parents and relatives, erupts in applause immediately after.

Four young men dressed in identical white shirts, red ties and navy trousers, stand next to their head teacher and bow to their audience. The clapping grows louder.

"Wonderful! Simply wonderful!" The woman standing next to Jane and Catherine says over the applause.

Jane nods, clapping as well. "Yes. They are, aren't they?"

"Your son is so talented," the woman goes on. "He'll make quite a scientist!"

"Thank you." Jane replies, beaming. "And of course, so is your son. All of them are quite clever, aren't they?"

The woman nods, a huge smile on her face like most of the audience. Still clapping, she goes on, "who knows what they'll discover? Maybe a cure for cancer!" Jane nods and continues to applaud as well.

The applause finally dies down and 13 year old Graham, wading through the crowd and compliments, finally makes his way to his mother and sister. As he draw near, he looks beyond them, his eyes flitting to the door for the umpteenth time that day.

"I'm sorry," his mother says as he reaches them. "Your father called me at home just before I left."

The boy's face falls. But he says nothing, just nods his head.

"But," she goes on, "he says he'll meet us at the restaurant later this evening for our celebratory dinner."

"Yeah. Right." Catherine says, running her hand through her hair now dyed inky black and cut quite short.

"Catherine." Her mother says.

"Good work, Einstein." Catherine says, slipping an arm over her younger brother's shoulder. "At least one of us has brains."

"Both of my children are bright," Jane says to her.

"Nice one of my parents thinks so."

"Catherine." She says again.

"Well," Graham interjects, looking over at the display table nearby, his model on it. "It needs a lot more work. But if the DNA strand —"

"Catherine, stop rolling your eyes," her mother instructs.

Graham shrugs. "It's ok."I know it's kind of ...geeky."

"It's nothing of the kind. It's brilliant." She beams at her son. "Your father and I very proud." She glances at her daughter, "Of both of you."

"Right." Catherine says. "We'll see how proud when he doesn't show up. As usual."

As if on cue, the headmaster approaches Jane before she can respond.

"Mrs. Pearce?"

"Yes?"

"Mr. Pearce is on the phone. You can take it in my assistant's office."

"Thank you," she says simply, then turns to her children. "I'll be right back."

Graham nods.

"Right." Catherine says as soon as their mother's out of earshot. "No dinner, either. _Emergency_. She rolls her eyes again. "Didn't I tell you?" Taking a look at her brother's face, she says, "Ah…no biggie, G." She says. "Screw 'im."

"Right," he says quietly. And going over to his display, reaches for his model, a replica of a DNA strand. A moment later, his sister joins him. Together they carefully lift the double helix structure, placing it into a large cardboard box. Picking up his research paper and award certificate next to it, he places them inside as well. Then closing each flap of the box, he seals it shut.

* * *

Pushing aside his plate, Harry takes a sip of his coffee. "That was exactly what I needed. And..." His eyes open a bit, his hand touching his pocket. "Sorry," he says, putting his cup down before reaching for his mobile, his eyes still on Ruth. "Jane, he says a moment later, involuntarily wincing. "Calm down. "

Ruth sets her cup down as well.

"I only wanted to.."

He gets up. Then walking a bit away from the table, he half-turns from Ruth, still seated at the table.

"Don't blame Catherine," he says. "She knew nothing about this...fine, then...if she has already said otherwise... but do keep in mind that she is only looking out for her brother...she always has. ...but let me call you back, please. I want to discuss...Jane?" Still holding the mobile in his hand, he slowly turns back to Ruth.

"I'm sorry." She says. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

He shakes his head. "Please. I'm the one who needs to apologise. For that." He sighs, finally shutting the mobile. "As you can see, my ex-wife s quite angry with me. Again."

"For seeing Graham?"

"Well. Yes. That and...picking the lock."

Ruth's eyes open.

"Well, he wouldn't open the door."

"I see."

"And if it were not so damn pathetic, it would almost be...funny. " He sighs again. "God knows I can handle her. Jane, I mean. I certainly have had enough practice. But what really ...worries me now is she's blaming poor Catherine. My 'partner in crime,' she called her." He shakes his head. "Can you imagine?"

"Catherine?"

"My daughter thought that since she was having lunch with her mother, it would be a good time for me to see Graham. I agreed."

"I see." She says again.

"You don't approve."

"I didn't say that. It's none of my business, really."

"Ruth, " he says, "you've more than earned a -"

"No," she says, "I haven't. It's not any of -"

"You know how much I value your opinion... your analytical skills."

She smiles a bit at that. "But I really think I ought not to -"

He sits down heavily. "And if I caused a rift between Catherine and Graham ...God. What a cock-up."

She reaches across and pats his hand.

He nods a and smiles sadly. "I'm sorry. Once again. But I really need to speak to Catherine. I think in fact, I'll call her and go directly to her flat; it's on the way home." And he flips open his phone. "Let me call a taxi."

"You can take my car. You know I don't-"

"I won't leave you without a car. Especially at night." He says, using his Grid voice.

She simply nods. And whilst he speaks to the dispatcher, she goes over to the closet and gets his coat, her hand brushing the velvet collar, her mind turning in many directions.

"He's in the neighbourhood. Should be here momentarily, they tell me." He says, joining her again. His eyes rest on her hand, still stroking the collar. She stops, a faint blush on her cheeks.

Smiling gently, he takes his coat from her. "Well. It seems all I do is thank you or apologise. Or eat your food. Which was by the way, delicious."

She smiles up at him. "You helped."

"I cracked three eggs and set the table. And ate your food. So would you do me the distinct honor of properly thanking you?"

"Sorry?"

"Dinner. This week-end. Restaurant of your choice. Barring any unforeseen events, of course. "

She smiles brilliantly. "Of course. I mean, yes. I...look forward to it. The dinner, I mean. Not the unforeseen events."

He smiles back at her. "Well, then," he says, "you choose and let me know."

"Yes. I think I know where to find you."

His smile grows. "I mean it," he says, standing there, his coat on, unbuttoned. "I don't know how I'd manage without you, you know."

"You'd think of think of something. I'm sure."

He looks doubtfully at her. "But it ...Well." Then simply says, "good night, Ruth." And he stands there staring at her not unlike the night before.

"Goodnight, Harry," she says. And reaching up, she adjusts his collar.

He grabs her hand and holds it against his cheek for a moment, then kisses it. "I really don't want to go, you know."

"I know," she says, her eyes luminous, "but you must."

He nods. "Yes." Then still holding her hand, he leans in and kisses her, his lips brushing against hers.

Her arms go around him. And in moments they are wrapped in one another's arms, the kiss growing deeper.

A car pulls up, headlights illuminating the street. It beeps.

"Ah, he says, taking a breath.

"Right," she says, taking a breath as well, " your cab. "

He nods. "Tomorrow, then," he says softly. And steps into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you for your interest int his story, and of course your lovely feedback!**

_Warning: some crude language ahead._

**Sins of the Father**

11-

If Harry were given to animistic thinking, his sympathies would lie with that most ancient of toys known commonly as the yo-yo; clearly, his day and night has had its ups and downs. But as a pragmatic man, he acknowledges the events of the day as simply the vicissitudes of life. And as a practical man, he does what he does best: he perseveres; more often than not he is successful within his professional life; his personal life, markedly less so. And as such, he is well aware of the bitter irony: what he does best has cost him dearly. His failed marriage. His children. Relationships. Then there's his temper. Insomnia. Ulcer. Drinking too much. Living alone.

Yet there is Ruth.

_Ruth._

He feels the familiar tightening down below whenever he thinks about her. Especially this evening. Her hand on his collar. His face. Kissing her. Pressing into her. The blessed warmth of her body.

"We're here, Sir."

Immediately, he files all of that away. For later. Much later. He's good at doing that, too.

* * *

"Um...Coffee?"

"Yes. Thank you, Catherine."

His daughter nods and pours him a cup in her small kitchen.

"Well," he says, looking across from her, "this is nice." And he waits until she pours some milk in her own coffee. Reaching for the creamer, he pours some milk into his as well.

"Dad." She says. "You've always had it black. That much I know about you." She looks down for a second then back at him. "Sorry. I only meant..."

"You're right," he replies mildly. "I do. Usually. But since you were having some..."

"You don't have to agree with me, you know." She looks across at him, her eyes clear. Bold. "Find things in common."

He smiles a bit sheepishly.

"We're both adults, now."

He nods. "It's just that, I should have. More often. When you were young." He puts his cup down and really looks at her.

"I'm not a child anymore," she reiterates, her eyes still fixed upon him.

"I wonder, Cate," he says, "if you ever were."

She blinks at that.

"Your ...compassion. Looking out for others. Even as a very little girl. I used to worry about that, you know. Still do," he adds.

"Why?"

"I thought that you'd get hurt. Be taken advantage of."

"I can take care of myself," she says. But she's smiling gently.

He nods. "Yes. I can see that now. And I'm sorry. For ... a lot of things."

She doesn't say anything to that.

"And I'm sorry that our plan caused a rift between you and your brother."

"We're...ok. "

"Are you? Really?"

She nods. "Yes. It's Mom, actually. She's being a bitch about it all."

"Catherine. Don't. Please."

"What? All you wanted to do was—"

"I should never have forced the issue. Been deceitful."

"To see your own son?"

"I should have discussed this with your mother."

I thought you had. "

"Yes, we had." He says. "We...She's a fine person, Cate. I don't need to tell you that. And a wonderful mother. . A lot …better…than..."

"Dad." And she sighs.

"I'll speak to her. Let her know…"

"What? That you care?"

"Well, yes. But-"

"It was my idea. Graham needs...needs you. Both his parents." She shakes her head. "Please don't treat me as a child. Please."

He looks across at his first born-child, her inherent stubborn streak intact, yet no longer a source of irritation to him. "All right, he says, "I promise. I won't." Then he smiles. "How's work? Your film?"

She shrugs. "Ok."

"Ok?"

"It's hard to concentrate sometimes." And she finally looks away, dropping her gaze.

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "work helps. And it's important work. I'm so proud of you."

She lifts her eyes back to him. "That's what Mom always said. That you were proud of me...Despite.."

"She was right, you know. And I will be eternally grateful to her for that. And for being there for you and your brother." He swallows and looks away.

"Dad." Reaching across the table, she pats his hand. And he is taken back to that evening so many years ago when as a young girl, she did the same. Comforting him, even though he had so bitterly disappointed her. He blinks rapidly then looks away again.

"Dad," she says again, her voice so very gentle, "Wouldn't you like another cup of coffee? Black?"

"Yes, he says, looking at her now, and patting her hand upon his, "I would."

Her smile, remarkably like his, lights up the kitchen.

* * *

The house is quiet when he arrives; his children presumably fast asleep. But the light is on in the living room. And the next thing he notices is his suitcase against the wall in the foyer. And from the looks of it, packed. A shadow flits across his vision. He follows it into the living room. She is there, still dressed, and sitting in an easy chair, a book on the table in front of her

"I want a divorce."

He sighs. "Jane."

"I mean it. If you have a shred of decency left-"

"Jane-"

"An ounce of feeling for your children-"

""It couldn't be helped-"

"I don't care if the sky was falling-"

"It nearly did," he mutters.

"Then you will leave."

"This is my house, too. My children. I will not-"

"Please lower your voice. Your children are asleep. Finally."

"Let's discuss this," he says, dropping his voice, "tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow."

"Jane."

"You need to leave, please. My solicitor will ring you up."

You cannot be serious."

"Frankly, I'm surprised that you are."

He draws nearer. "I know that we've had our...differences, Still, I'm-"

"-If you need anything else, I'll send it to you." And she turns from him.

For a minute or so, he listens for her footsteps overhead. And for the bedroom door to close. And when it does, he indulges himself in his mind's eye by storming after her. Breaking down the door. Demanding she speak to him. Listen to him. Make her understand. Then his eyes lift directly above to where his children are asleep. And safe. He closes his eyes. Then turning back to the foyer, he picks up his suitcase. And locks the door behind him.

* * *

His day is busy, one phone call after another, alternating with meetings. First with the Home Secretary; later the JIC. As a result, he's seen little of his people, most notably, his analyst and intelligence officer, Ruth. That is unless surreptitious glances through his glass cubicle, counts. And there she sits, mere feet away, headset on, leaning in towards her monitor separated by a pane of glass.

It might as well be an ocean apart; a lead wall between them. Pushing back his chair, he gets up, walking over to her desk. As usual, she turns and faces him before he reaches her.

"Ruth," he says. "May I see you in my office?"

"Of course," she says, getting up immediately.

The others look up at his tone: soft, gentle, her name almost a caress; he realizes this too late. He realizes as well that he doesn't give a damn as she follows him back to his office. But he cares what she thinks. What her colleagues think about her. Leaving the blinds open for her sake, he asks, "How are you?"

She blinks a bit. "Fine. Um...How was your visit with Catherine?"

"Good," he says. "I think we're making progress." His smile softens his face. Then glancing through the glass to the outer office, he picks up a piece of paper.

"Good. I'm glad."

" Um...Thank you for yesterday. Last night. "

"You're welcome." And her smile is gentle. Soft. A caress. Not unlike his tone only moments ago.

"Ruth." He says, "Are we still ...have you picked a place for Saturday night?"

His heart lurches when she hesitates just a bit. But when she looks up at him, her eyes tell him everything he needs to know. He manages not to grin outright.

"Yes, " she says. "I have. I was waiting to discuss it with you ...later."

"Later?"

"Well, not here." And she takes the paper from him. Then smiles, waving the blank piece of paper a bit. "Is this for my benefit or theirs?" And she glances at her colleagues through the glass who appear to be looking elsewhere. Anywhere, it seems. but at their superior and his desk analyst.

He smiles back..." Well...I..."

"Thank you," she says, folding the paper and taking it. She turns to go, then stops. "Turkish, ok?"

He tilts his head. Then the light bulb turns on. "Ah, yes," he says. "Yes." And this time, has a difficult time not grinning.


	12. Chapter 12

_"My love is as boundless as the sea_

_ My love as deep; the more I give to thee,_

_ The more I have, for both are infinite."_

** Shakespeare; _Romeo and Juliet_;**** II,ii.****  
**

12-

The rest of Harry's week is uneventful. This means that in the world of her Majesty's Secret Service, specifically, MI5, all known terrorist groups currently under observation are in fact, being watched; there are no imminent terrorist threats, either; no real shift in foreign policy; peace treaties more or less honored; the gas and oil crisis no worse (the same could be said for the economy) and wonders upon wonders, the pundits were not—at least this week—screaming that the sky was falling. (And as such, that the security forces were overpaid, inept, and clearly not doing enough to keep the citizens of Great Britain safe from its enemies.) Even the weather was cooperative, somewhat milder than usual, the sun peeking out from the clouds for more than a few minutes at a time.

Much the same could be said about his private world: his son Graham (although incommunicado) present and accounted for; the young man's solicitor in daily touch with his father; Catherine now back to work on her film; and Jane once again talking to her daughter (if not exactly to her ex-husband).

All in all, a good week, at least according to the universe that is uniquely Harry Peace.

Of course, he knows none of it will last. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he pushes aside any thoughts of the calm before the storm and tries to enjoy the interlude. Moreover, if he were a superstitious man, he'd pray for the centre to hold at least until his date with Ruth. Perhaps even after. But since he is not, he does no such thing. What he does, however, is remain hopeful. And he is rewarded: Universe still turning, winds calm, Harry picks up Ruth at precisely 7 o'clock on Saturday evening.

The door opens.

Her hair is pinned up, loose tendrils falling around her face. Gold sparkly eye shadow enhances her already magnificent eyes, fringed by thick blue-black lashes. And her dress. Red. Deep red with a decidedly Asian flair, he supposes. Form-fitting. Nehru collar. With capped sleeves (he thinks they're called). And slit up one side. He stares.

She smiles at him, her lipstick quite red, almost as red as her dress. It registers somewhere in his brain that it's probably supposed to match the dress. Or vice-versa. He's not really sure, but that would make sense, he supposes again. So would the gold pumps on her feet which match the delicate gold embroidery running throughout her dress.

He finds his voice if not actually the vocabulary. "You look absolutely…perfect."

"Perfect?" She sparkles. All of her. At him.

Vainly, he scans his befuddled brain for a more sophisticated word. Something unique. Special. Extraordinary. Like her. But all he can come up with is 'perfect.' So he says it again: "Perfect." And adds, "Really."

"Well, I'm glad you approve," she says, her dimples now out in full force. And she goes over to the closet, the dress accentuating her curves as she reaches inside.

He watches the dress clinging to every luscious line. He snaps out of it when she turns back to him with her three-quarter length jacket. Also red. Also Asian inspired. Tapered. Long sleeved. And shiny. Satin, he guesses.

"And your jacket?" He says out loud. "Also... perfect." He moves to help her, and when he does, she slips inside of it as if she were made of satin, too.

"Well," she says, adjusting the coat around her, "I'm glad that you approve of it as well."

He stands back in abject admiration of her. "I do. Much more than that. Really, you look…" And giving up on finding another word that expresses what he really feels, he finally caves in and states the blatantly obvious. "Beautiful."

"Thank you, Harry. " She simply says. But there's an unmistakable blush on her cheeks which pleases him to no end.

"Shall we then?" he says.

She smiles beatifically and takes his arm.

** -xoXOxo-**

Dinner is also perfect. The Turkish restaurant located near the Waterloo station is excellent; the service attentive; the decor just right. But all, all of it pales next to her. Sitting across from him, a study in red and gold except for the flash of intense blue which never fails to jolt him no matter how often he has stared at her eyes. Even away from her, her remarkable eyes never leave him; they've become a part of him. But now, there is no need to imagine her. She's there. Across from him. Laughing. Smiling. At him.

He decides he's enchanted. Under a spell. Bewitched. And understands then why he's rendered inarticulate. He stares a lot. Nods a lot. Even smiles a lot.

She notices. "You haven't said much, Harry," she says, putting her glass down. " I hope," she says, her sapphire eyes troubled, "is everything all right?"

"Hmmm?" He's staring at her red lips, wondering how they would taste; would they, could they, will they...

"I rest my case," she says. She looks a bit sad.

"What?" He asks and gives himself a mental slap. "God no. …I mean, yes. I mean..." Trying not to fixate on her lips, he shakes his head deliberately, the mental slap clearly ineffectual. "It's ...I've never seen you look more beautiful than this evening. "

She tilts her head at him.

"I mean, " he hurries on, "you're already a beautiful women. Surely you must know that. But tonight-"

"I know of no such thing. But I thank you for saying so, " she says, her eyes completely devoid of any guile.

"Ruth." He sighs." Really. You take my breath away. Especially this evening, In fact, I'm practically aphasic around you tonight. "

"You? At a loss for words?" He dimples deepen.

"Don't tease, Ruth." And he drops his voice, "You know what I mean."

She smiles, and this time it is a time honored beguiling one. And he almost loses his train of thought. Again. He pictures a pool of ice cold water and plunges into it. It seems to do the trick. For the moment. "I'm finding it difficult," he says, "to have an intelligent conversation with you because you look …well. Perfect._" Blast it all, _he thinks, _'perfect_'_ again?_ Despite the ice cold pool going the way of his mental slap and all other efforts to stay focused, he plows on, determined not to lose the moment. "Are you…enjoying yourself? God, I hope so." He blurts out.

"Yes. Of course. As long as you are," she adds.

'Ruth. I may be rendered inarticulate, but rest assured I'm enjoying myself. Immensely." Her smile deepens. Thank you," he adds, "for giving me the opportunity to thank you..."_ Christ._ Helplessly, he stares at her expression.

"Is that all this is, Harry?" She asks, her tone playful despite the truth in her eyes. "A thank you?"

In desperation, he reaches across and presses his hand on top of hers. "You know it's not."

"What is it, then?" She asks softly, so softly that he has to strain to hear her.

He swallows then exhales noticeably. "Whatever you'd like it to be," he answers, his synapses finally firing.

Her blush deepens and so does her gaze.

"Dessert? The server appears, then hesitates taking in the couple who barely look up at him.

Harry lifts his hand from hers.

"Would you?" he asks.

"I'm really full," she says "But if you want—"

"No," he says, all at once both reluctant and desperate to leave.

Neither looks up at the server, nor realise that he has, wisely, already left their table.

"Would you-?"

"Would you-?"

Both smile. And stop, waiting for the other. He gestures to her to go on.

"No, Harry. You...go first. Please. I insist."

He shrugs almost shyly. " I was going to ask you ….We could have coffee. Or …" And he shrugs again. "At my place. If you like. That is."

"I was going to suggest the same. " She says, her blush expressing everything he has been thinking. Fleetingly, he wonders if it always had, but he was just too dense to understand. . "Ah," he says. And smiles. "So.."

She nods.

His smile transforms his face.

** -xoXOxo-**

"Perfect." He says, but his time he's more than satisfied with the word. And where he is. He runs his hand down her bare arm, then up again, her skin infinitely softer than her satin jacket, now crumpled on the floor. Somewhere.

"Yes," she says. "Perfect." And strokes his broad chest, also bare.

They lie together in his bed, his arms around her, her head on his shoulder. Through the window, the moonlight, high now, shines upon them as if the gods are pleased. Blessing them.

Having unpinned her hair not long ago, he runs his hands through it now before dropping a kiss on top of her head. Then her forehead. Her nose. Then runs his hand along her neck, trailing down to the cleft between her breasts. Her hip. Then back up, coming to rest upon her cheek. Now cool. Unblemished. No longer flushed. She shifts a bit, kisses him on his lips. Soft. Gentle. He returns the kiss just as gently. "Impossible." He says, sotto voce, as his soft brown eyes with just a hint of green, meld into hers. He sighs.

"What is it?" She says, tracing the whorls of his ear.

"You. Being here. With me." He replies as if in a dream.

"But I am. We are," she amends. "Here. Together." And she nestles in more.

He holds her tighter against him. "Finally. Yes." Then he grabs her hand, kissing it. "Do you know," he says, placing her hand upon his chest and holding it there with his large, square hand, "how long I have wanted to do this?"

"Did you, Harry?" She props herself up a bit, looking up at him. "Did you?"

"Oh, Ruth. Of course," he says, turning his head a bit more towards her. Then waits. And when he can wait no more, he asks, "Ruth?"

"Yes. Of course. I did as well."

"When?"

"Harry," she says with no hesitation. "I've loved you for a very long time. Couldn't you tell?"

He answers by gathering her even closer to him.

"Harry?"

He clears his throat, still holding fast, no intention of ever letting her go. "I…love you... And have for a long time. "

"Then why-"

"Why," he says, shifting a bit and pulling her back on top of him, "is a crooked letter."

He can feel her smile.

* * *

Yes: an early Valentine's Day gift from me to you for reading this fic! And of course, your feedback.

**-xoXOxo-**


	13. Chapter 13

_O my son, Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!_

(2 Samuel 18:33)

**Sins of the Father**

-13-

"Here you go." Teeth and tongue snap the bit of bacon up from Ruth's fingers. And just as quickly, the little dog sits, looking up expectantly at her. And the bit of bacon still left on her plate.

"Ruth," he says, shaking his head.

She looks up at him as Scarlet licks her muzzle, eyes still riveted upon her benefactress of the moment. "Oh," she says, "I didn't think that you'd mind. I'm sorry. I really should have asked if -"

"It's fine. Really. But _she_," and he looks down at his dog with a mock glare, "already had some. From me. Didn't you girl? You little beggar, you." Scarlet eyes dart from Ruth to her master, then Ruth again. And her plate.

"Before you came down," he adds, still smiling across at Ruth. "When I was making it."

"Ah, I see." She nods and smiles back at him.

Both are doing an inordinate amount of smiling. And for Harry, it's as if he's only now discovered how to smile. Unreservedly. And the only strange thing about doing so, he thinks, is how natural it all feels. He looks across at the reason why. Hair damp, face glowing, wearing one of his track suits with sleeves pushed up, she sits across from him, smiling. In the morning. After spending the night with him. In his bed. His smile broadens as he continues to stare across at her.

"Thanks for this," she says, stuffing the last of bacon in her mouth. "_Sorry_," she then mouths to Scarlet, a strand of drool now hanging from her mouth. "Ummm, so good, " Ruth says looking back up to Harry, "I was …practically starving."

"Worked up an appetite, I see," he says and smiles even more at her answering blush. Despite the blush, however, she more than meets his eye. Something passes between them, ancient as time itself, yet for them, new, precious. Extraordinary. They share a nod, a look. And smile.

"Harry," she says a moment later, at last putting her fork down, "you weren't kidding when you said that you could cook."

He nods. "Nope." And continues to beam at her.

"Well", she says, licking the last of maple syrup and iced sugar off her lips, "you can make French toast for me anytime."

"I intend to." He says. "Often. Every morning. "

"Then I shall get quite fat."

"More to ...love, I say."

"You say that now."

He reaches across, his hand on hers. "Now. Then. Always."

* * *

"That's not possible," Harry says, sitting across from the school councillor. "He's a good student." He turns to his ex-wife of less than a year sitting next to him. "Isn't he?"

She barely acknowledges him, only fractionally turns her head towards him, saying nothing.

"Mr Pearce." The councillor goes on, "I'm sorry, but it is not only possible, it is a fact. Your son was caught in the science laboratory after class inhaling—huffing—some kind of glue compound."

"Glue? Are you sure?" And before the councillor can reply, he says, "Perhaps he's just experimenting? Kids, you know often-"

"Mr Pearce," she says again," I sincerely doubt that he is ...experimenting. But even if that were so, huffing kills. It's extremely dangerous. In fact, those who—"

"I know," he interrupts her, a note of impatience in his voice. "But Graham might not really understand the consequences. That's what I mean. Kids experiment with no real understanding of their actions. So if we explain to him how dangerous it is..."

"Mr Pearce, "the councillor says, her tone courteous but resolute, "your son is exceptionally bright. And has won many awards I'm told, especially in science."

"Yes. That is exactly what I mean." He nods his head at her. "He's academically bright. But still naive. A...a... boy. Really. And doesn't understand the ramifications of what he's doing."

The professional eyes him sympathetically but presses on. "I think he does, Mr Pearce." She pauses before continuing. "I'm sorry. I know this is difficult to accept. But Graham is a young man now. And his recent behaviour has been a source of concern from other teachers as well.

"Such as?"

"His schoolwork is faltering, at best. In fact, from what I've been told, he's barely passing most of his subjects."

He swallows dryly. "I had no…" He turns a bit towards his former wife. "Why didn't you…?"

Eyes straight ahead, back as straight as the chair in which she sits, she continues to say nothing.

"Further," the councillor goes on, "the science teacher suspected something like this before during class but had no proof. That is, until he walked in today and actually witnessed Graham inhaling the glue. I'm sorry." She adds softly, "there is no mistake."

"But why would he do such a thing?"

She nods. "That is the question, Mr Pearce. Especially Graham doing it where he knew he would be caught."

"You're saying he wanted to? Be caught?" He asks incredulously. "I don't believe it. Not Graham." He looks again at Jane but her eyes remain fixed on the professional directly across from her.

"I understand, of course," the councillor says carefully, taking in the couple before her, "that things have... That there have been some fairly recent changes within the home."

"You mean the divorce." He says flatly. "Is that what this is about?"

"No."

Both the councillor and Harry jerk their heads towards Jane. "It is not." She adds, still sitting up straight, hands clasped on her lap.

"Then what? What else could it be? Maybe he's …." He looks at the professional facing him and ex-wife next to him.

"I can see you have some things to discuss," the councillor says into the icy silence. "Why don't I just leave you two to do so?" And she slips out of the room, quietly closing the door behind them.

"How long has this been going on?" He asks, turning towards Jane.

"What?" She asks, finally looking at him.

'"What?' What else could I mean? Graham. Our son. And why isn't he here? With us?"

"He's home. With Catherine."

"Catherine? You left him with Catherine?"

"Yes. Home. With his sister. Where should I have sent him then? To his father? Your office?" She goes on, oblivious or perhaps apathetic to the clenched fist at his side, his clenched mouth. "We're lucky that they called us. And not the local authorities."

"Well, that could always be..."

"What? Fixed? You mean you could fix it if need be?"

"I only meant…" He shakes his head. "This isn't helping."

"I agree." She says. "You might as well leave."

He stares at her.

"You're good at that," she adds, under her breath, before turning her head away from him once more.

The chair nearly topples behind him.

She blinks but does not flinch at the body now looming over her. "Are you going to hit me, Harry?"

He pushes out each word. "I've never touched you. Not once. But so help me, Jane…if you..."

She lifts her chin even higher. But the colour in her face drains, her hands in her lap clasped tighter than ever.

And all at once, the air goes out of him. "Jane," he says, shoulders sagging, 'how could this have happened?"

"Absent father." She says, without missing a beat, looking up and meeting his eyes again. "And when you were home, rare as that was, you were either preoccupied. Or distant. Or giving orders."

His entire face caves in. "Is that what my children think of me?"

She doesn't say anything, but the look on her face says all he needs to know.

* * *

"Now I really should be getting back," she says, following Harry back into the house, Scarlet still on the leash.

Bending down, he unsnaps the little dog's leash. Immediately, she runs off to her basket in the living room, curls up, and closes her eyes. "I know." He says, looking back at Ruth. "Fidget. Just let me lock up. And give Scarlet some fresh water." She watches as he goes off to the kitchen, filling the bowl, setting it back down. "Now where did I..."and he pats his shirt, and then looks a bit sheepishly at her. "I..."

"On the counter," she says, smiling and pointing to the left. "Where you left it last night."

"Ah," He says, picking up the mobile. "Of course, you understand, I had other things on my mind."

She laughs softly at him. "Is that so?"

"Trust me," he says, smiling again. "And..." the mobile rings in his hand.

"Good timing," she says.

He nods, flipping it open. "Catherine," he says into it, a lilt in his voice. "No," he whispers, moments later. And knees buckling, he sinks into the kitchen chair. "Not Graham. No."


	14. Chapter 14

_"It doesn't matter who my father was, it matters who I remember he was."_

-Anne Sexton (1928-74)

** Sins of the Father**

** -14-**

"For God's sake, Harry. Tell me what's happened."

Mobile still in hand and now lifelessly resting upon his leg, it's as if she hasn't spoken.

"Harry. Please," she says drawing nearer. When she touches his shoulder, he looks up at her with unfocused eyes. "My son," he says to no one in particular, pushing himself off the chair. "Graham." Gripping his arm, she steadies him as he stands there still not seeing her. "I need to go to the hospital." But despite his words, he stands there, not moving, hands at his side. "I...need..." he begins again, and then stops, sweeping his eyes across the kitchen.

"Yes," she says. "We will. Right away. Just give them to me," she says. "Your keys." And she pats his trouser pockets, the same corduroy pair he had on the day they met at the National Gallery not long ago. But there is no response from him until she begins to reach inside for them. "No," he says, staying her hand with his own and now surprisingly strong. "No," he says again, his voice growing stronger, "he's my son. My son."

"Yes," she says evenly. "Of course he is. But you're in no condition to drive. Just give me the keys, and we can be on our way."

"Your cat," he says with absolutely no inflection to his voice, still not looking at her, "You need to see to it."

"She's fine, Harry. Please. Let me. Please." And tries again to reach into his pocket.

Pushing her hand away, he reaches inside and pulls out his keys, his fist gripping them. She rests her hand on top of his. "Please. So we can go to the hospital. "

They stand there, then, her hand on his, his knuckles turning white, the keys tightly clenched inside. "Harry," she says once more, her tone ineffably gentle yet resolute. He looks at her then, really seeing her for the first time since the phone call. She nods and waits. A moment later, he opens his hand. "Thank you," she says, taking the keys from him. He nods mutely, his eyes once again fixed upon the keys now resting in her hands.

"Come." She says, touching his arm again. "Come."

Neither one says anything, nor does she ask anything else of him until they are inside the car. "Where is he?" She asks over the running motor.

The answer is slow in coming. "St. Bartholomew's. He's had a stroke. And is in critical condition."

* * *

"Of all the stupid things to do! He's not even 17! What the hell was he doing driving your car? And inebriated, no less! And why the hell did I have to find out from -"

"I thought it best to wait until they released him."

"That was hours ago! Just because we're no longer together is no reason for you—"

Not meeting his eyes, his ex-wife points her chin away from him.

He shakes his head. "Never mind. He's lucky no one was hurt. No one was, right?" He asks quickly. "That's what I was told."

"He was alone. And no one was hurt. And that," she says icily, finally looking at him, "includes your son. In case you were wondering."

Standing in the foyer where she had left his suitcase just a few years ago, he stares across at his former wife. "I know he's fine," he says. "That is," he adds under his breath, "until I get a hold of him." Casting his eyes upwards he asks, "where is he? In his room?" Without waiting for an answer he begins to head for the stairs.

"Just leave him," she says, following close behind. "He's upset enough."

He turns around, incredulous. "You cannot be serious."

"I am. He knows he did the wrong thing. And your berating him-"

"Berating him? He could have killed someone! Including himself." He shakes his head in disgust. "And he has to be made aware of that fact."

"He's not stupid—"

"He's an idiot and—"

He's not an idiot! He's–"

"He is and will stay as such if you continue to indulge him. Just like you did with his sister. Which is why she also –"

"If you think I've been remiss, then you should have been here. A real father, not an absentee one. You think it's easy raising teenagers alone?"

"I'm not the one who wanted the divorce! If you remember! You packed my bags—"

"I didn't want your affair, either!"

"If you hadn't been so cold, then maybe I—"

"Get out of my house."

"I'll get out when I'm good and –"

_ "Stop it! Stop it! Both of you! Just stop it!"_

Shocked, each turn towards their daughter. Catherine, her hair no longer dyed black and longer than when Harry had last seen her, stares back at both parents. "Can't you just stop it! Both of you?"

"Catherine," he says quietly, taking note of her pale face, "this doesn't concern you." The minute the words are out of his mouth, he realizes just how inane they are. But he goes on, "Is he there? In his room? "And he looks above to the same room he used to stand in, watching his youngest sleep so peacefully, so many years ago.

"So you can knock some sense into him?"

"For god's sake," he says to his daughter, his voice rising despite his best intentions, "stop being so dramatic. I've never laid a hand on either of you. And you know it."

"That's because you weren't home long enough."

He sighs. And turning away from her and her mother, continues on his way up the stairs.

"If you go up there, I shall call the police," Catherine says just steps behind him. "I know you'll probably fix it all, but until it gets sorted out..."

Ignoring her, he finds himself standing in front of his son's door moments later. "Graham!" he calls out, giving a sharp rap on the door, "Open the door!"

Before he can rap on the door again, it opens. Mere inches apart, father and son stare across at one another.

"Harry," Jane says, now stepping onto the landing as well, "If you dare to-"

"Graham," Harry says, "Do you understand what you did? Have you any idea-"

"Yes, I do."

"Then why the hell would you do something so idiotic?" So irresponsible? For god's sake's, Graham! Why?"

The young man shrugs. "Why? 'Why is a crooked letter.' Isn't that what you've always said?"

The sound of his hand making contact with his son's face pierces the air and vibrates in the shocked silence until Jane begins to scream at him. "Get out! Get out! I swear, if you don't, I'll call the police."

"I'll do it, Mom," Catherine says. "I will." But she continues to stand there, face white, breathing tremulously, her thin chest heaving.

His face already showing the imprint of his father's hand, the young man stands there, his posture upright. But his grey eyes are brimming and moments from overflowing.

Harry stares back. All at once he exhales, his face going slack. "Graham," he says, reaching out towards his son, "I'm sorry. I ... shouldn't have. But—"

Stepping back into his room, his son shuts the door between them.

"You bastard. I always knew you were a bully at heart."

Swallowing hard, he turns back to his daughter, her face still white, body quivering with emotion.

"Catherine I...didn't..."

"I hate you." She says, articulating each word, "I hate you." And turning her back on him, shuts the door between them as well.

"Are you satisfied now, Harry? Both your children hate you." He looks over at Jane, just mere feet away.

Silently, he brushes past her, down the steps and out the front door.

Minutes later, he sits in his car, motor off, hands on steering wheel. Slowly, he drops his head onto his hands. And cries.

* * *

Stepping into St. Bart's with Ruth at his side, he scans the corridor and the signs above him.

"Dad."

At the sound of her voice, Ruth steps back discreetly.

"Catherine," he says, as his daughter draws near him. "Your brother. Where?"

She bursts into tears.

"Where is he?" Your brother?" He asks again, his arms dangling at his sides. She is weeping so hard that she cannot answer him. It registers somewhere in the recesses of his dulled brain that his daughter is holding onto him now, sobbing. He raises a heavy arm and manages a pat or two upon her shoulder. "I need to see him, Catie. Where did you say he was?"

She points. "The…the…ICU. He...he..."

Patting her shoulder again, he moves away from her. And slowly wends his way down the hall.

Turning, she presses her face into the wall and continues to cry. Approaching her a few minutes later, Ruth stands there silently and waits until Catherine slowly turns back to her. "You came here… with my father."

"Yes," she replies. "I'm so sorry about Graham. My name is Ruth, and I'm a ...friend of your father's."

She nods dully.

"Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?"

She shakes her head. "No. Thanks."

"Ring someone up, then?"

The younger woman lifts her eyes to Ruth. "My mother."

"I'll be glad to do so." She says without hesitation.

But Catherine shakes her head, running her sleeve against her nose. "No. You don't understand. It's my fault. Oh, god," she says, the tears beginning to fall again. "It's my fault." And she begins to cry again.

Ruth closes the distance between them and ever so gently pats the young woman's arm. "Forgive me, I know it's one of my businesses, but I'm sure that-"

Taking a tremulous breath, Catherine says, "My mother is away. At a teacher's conference. Since yesterday. And she...she asked me to look after Graham. So I stayed. At her house." She nods stiffly. "I did. I did. But Graham…he..." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she says, suddenly, "I need to be with my father. My…my... brother."

Ruth nods. "Of course." And watches as the young woman heads towards the ICU as well.

**-XXX-**

"Your son," the neurologist says gravely to Harry, "has had an intracerebral haemorrhage, "most likely due to his amphetamine use. It's rare, but we are seeing this more and more. It's also is possible he was born with a malformation in the brain as well.

"Born with..?"

The specialist slowly raises his shoulders and then drops them, shaking his head. "We won't know for certain, not without further tests. But," he goes on, "at this point we are doing everything we can to minimize the damage and ascertain the best treatment for your son. This includes of course, constant monitoring of his blood pressure, intracranial pressure specifically, and of course, everything else. Fortunately, St Bart's is equipped to do so. We have—"

"So there's hope? Will he -"

The doctor pauses. "ICH is an emergent condition requiring prompt medical care which he is getting. But the mortality rate for such cases can be," and he pauses again eying the man staring back at him, "higher than 40% and half of those occur within the first 48 hours." I'm sorry," the neurologist says into the silence, "It's just much too soon to give any type of prognosis. Again, we are closely watching him and treating him accordingly."

Swallowing dryly, he says, "I want to see him."

"Of course." The neurologist hesitates again before he speaks. "You do understand that he been intubated to help him breathe? And sedated?"

Harry, looking every bit his age and older, nods.

The specialist nods back. "This way, then. Please."

He follows.


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you for your interest in this story. And I know since Harry is going though a difficult time, it makes for difficult reading. Still, have faith: he does have the love of a good woman, Ruth. :)**

_My Papa's Waltz_

_The whiskey on your breath _  
_Could make a small boy dizzy; _  
_But I hung on like death: _  
_Such waltzing was not easy. _

_We romped until the pans _  
_Slid from the kitchen shelf; _  
_My mother's countenance _  
_Could not unfrown itself. _

_The hand that held my wrist _  
_Was battered on one knuckle; _  
_At every step you missed _  
_My right ear scraped a buckle. _

_You beat time on my head _  
_With a palm caked hard by dirt, _  
_Then waltzed me off to bed _  
_Still clinging to your shirt._

**-Roethke, T. **

-15-

White. Stainless steel. People in rubber soles walking on hard shiny floors. Machines beeping. Flashing. Noisy. Quiet. And beds. Three. Each curtained off. Each open on one side. No windows. And everything bright. So very bright.

Harry files each and every image in front of him into a brain now both numbed and dazzled by an unfamiliar world. Despite his own previous injuries, despite being a patient in places just like this, and despite visiting others in similar places, this time, this place, is brand-new. This is his son. His child. Here. Critical. Perhaps moments from death. He swallows. And taking a deep breath, tries to find which bed holds his son. And his heart.

"Please. All visitors must wash their hands."

Dumbly, Harry turns his head to the woman in white. She merely takes him over to a nearby station and squirts a bit of gel onto his hands. "Rub." She says.

After he does as he's told, he says. "I'm here to see..."

"Yes. We know. He's over here. Come." Following her, he passes two curtained off areas. The nurse continues down a bit, finally leading him to the last curtained area.

Stepping around the curtain, he stares down at the unfamiliar form lying in the hospital bed. A clear hard plastic tube is in his son's mouth with numerous wires attached to his chest and arms. Bags of medication hang on an IV nearby, dripping into his veins, sustaining him or perhaps staving off the inevitable for only a while. A nurse, he presumes, checks the numerous lines attached to his son. Machines surround the bed; monitors light up. All for his son. And just as he did for the previous disorientating images, he files these new, infinitely more disturbing images, away as well.

He stands there, mute.

"He's sedated," the nurse says, looking up at him for a moment.

"How is…?"

"He's critical. But despite the prosaic words, her tone is not unkind. "You can come closer. Talk to him," she says, her voice softening.

He draws nearer. And watches the rise and fall of his son's chest, the only movement he can discern in the young man's body. For a moment, Harry is brought back to the times he stood watching his son sleep as a little boy. So at peace. So innocent. Whole. Loved. His little boy. His son. He turns his head away for a moment, then forces himself to look back at his son. Taking another step or two, he is close enough to touch him. But he doesn't. Instead he bends his head down a bit. "Gra—"He clears his throat and tries again." "Graham. It's ….your …father. I'm here," he says, his voice raspy. "So is Catherine. Outside. Just outside. We…" he shakes his head then turns to the nurse on the other side of the bed, now writing something down on a chart. "Can he hear me?"

She looks up for an instant and smiles gently. "We never assume otherwise." Then she nods. "Go on. Talk to him. You can touch him, too. "

"It won't …"

"You won't hurt him. Go ahead."

"Graham," he says, and he reaches out, his hand hovering above his son's soft way hair. But he drops his hand to his side."You're going to be all right," he says, leaning down a bit. "I know you can hear me," he adds, sure of no such thing. "You're going to be all right," he repeats. "You are." He takes a breath and then places his hand over his son's hand, barely making contact. His son's hand is cool but yielding. Alive. "Graham." he whispers. "I...…" Dimly, he is aware of a familiar voice and turns his head. When he does, he sees Catherine, her face paler than he can ever remember, standing a few feet away. He glances back to his son and then back to his daughter. "I'll be right back," he whispers to his son. Then he moves to where his daughter is standing and staring across at her brother in the bed.

When he touches her, he can feel her trembling. "Catie," he says ever so softly, as softly as he had spoken to his son moments ago. "Catie." But she doesn't respond, not even when he begins to pat her arm. She takes a shaky breath, then turns and dashes out of the room.

Following her past the heavy double doors and out into the corridor, he hears her before he actually sees her. She is bent over, sobbing. Without hesitation, he goes to her, putting his arms around her.

She clings to him, and she cries even harder. He lets her for a few minutes, holding her as if she were a little girl again. And is drawn back to that day when her heart was first broken over the baby sparrow she had found in their garden, dead. "Hush, hush," he says, using the same words he said that day to her all those years ago. But now his own voice quavers, his own breath is shallow, and it is his own heart that is broken. "Hush," he manages to say. "We mustn't give up hope, Catie. We must be strong for Graham. For him." He pulls back from her a bit and looks into her eyes. "We can do that, can't we? For him? You and me? "

She quiets a bit and when she does he asks gently, "Where's your mother?" Is she here? "

She almost starts to cry again. But she takes a breath and blurts out, "This is my fault."

"What?" He stares at her, both perplexed and shocked. "Of course it is no such thing. Why would you even think such a thing?"

Her words come out in a rush. "I was watching him. Mom's away at an international conference for teachers. In Denmark. And he ..." She takes another shaky breath. "I haven't told her yet. I don't know how." She adds.

"This is not your fault," he says firmly. "And we must tell your mother straight away," he adds, reaching for his mobile.

"Please. No, not yet." And she begins to tremble again.

"Catherine. Catherine," he says, clasping her shoulder, "you will make yourself sick. Please, I can't worry about both of you."

"But it's my fault. "

He sighs. "Of course it isn't," he says, his voice gentle and filled with regret. "If anything, It's my-"

"No." she interjects. "It isn't. Not this."

"Catherine," he says, his voice firmer than ever, "you cannot, must not blame yourself."

They stare at one another then with eyes so very similar, their stubborn natures perhaps even more so. After a moment she says, "What are we going to do, Dad?"

He holds her gaze and speaks decisively. " First we are going to call your mother. Then, "and he pats her arm, "we will be here for Graham. Together. All of us. As... a family."

He waits.

"Yes," she says."Yes."

And together, father and daughter head back into the room.

**-xxx-**

Later, much later, his eyes sweep the waiting area until he finds her in the corner with an open magazine on her lap, her eyes closed.

"Ruth," he says quietly. "Ruth."

Her eyes open. So very blue, so very gentle. "How is he?" she asks immediately awake.

"The same," he says, taking a seat next to her. "Which, they tell me, is not such a bad thing."

She nods and pats his hand.

He grips it with his other hand. "I'm not going in to work tomorrow. My children need me. I spoke with the Home Secretary and apprised him of the situation."

"Of course," she says, nodding. But he sees the surprise that flits across her face for just a second. "You're surprised."

"You're doing the right thing." And she nods again.

He shrugs. "I don't know if I am or not. I only know that this is where I will be. Need to be," he adds, "with my children. For the duration. Whatever may..."And he trails off.

"Yes. Of course."

He smiles sadly at her. "But this this no place for you," he says, "I have to be here, but-"

"Harry." She says her hand still in his, "I'm not going anywhere... unless you want me to." And for a moment, she looks a bit uncertain.

"Listen to me." He says, shifting closer to her, his voice low. "I'm a selfish man. But I' m trying not to be." And he squeezes her hand gently.

"I want to be here. Harry. With you. "

"I know you're wearing comfortable clothes," he says, smiling just a bit, but ..."

Looking down at the track suit that he had given her so many hours ago, it is her turn to give him a small, sad smile.

"But," he says, "In all seriousness, you can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, your cat."

I called my neighbour. Fidget is fine."

"And there's work."

She nods. "Yes. Work. "

He squeezes her hand a bit more. "I need you there. More than ever. "

"Of course. I understand." But she looks even more doubtful than before.

"Ruth," he says. "Look at me." When she does, he says, "I don't want to have to worry about you here. Sitting here all these hours especially after a long day at work." She opens her mouth to speak, but he hurries on. "And as much as I may want you here with me, and I do, I want you to go home. Get some rest. Sleep. So you can be ready for work tomorrow. I'm...counting on you."

"You can. But- "

And then he rests his hand on her face. "Will you do that for me? So I won't have to worry about you any more than I have to?" he asks, his eyes searching hers. "Please?"

She places a cool hand on top of his. And nods.

He manages a smile. "Go home, Ruth." He says. "And I'll call you later. Of course. Yes?"

She nods again, her hand now holding his against her face. "Yes," she says simply, "Yes."

He leans in even closer. "I meant what I said before." And he pauses. "About loving you."

"Harry, she says, looking up at him, her eyes now brimming. "I'm so sorry about Graham."

"I know." He says.

"And I love you, too."

"Yes," he says, just before his lips brush against hers. "I know that, too."


	16. Chapter 16

**Sins of the Father**

** -16-**

_Ruth_

Ruth does as told: She goes home, gets some rest and after speaking with Harry one more time, sleeps. And in the morning after speaking with him again, she goes to work. Sir Richard Dolby, the Director General of MI5 and now Harry's temporary (she fervently believes) replacement, is already there. And as much as she knows she shouldn't be annoyed, yet she is. Very much so. And she is not sure if it is because he was there before her, or that he is sitting in Harry's office; she suspects the latter which she knows is completely irrational. Still, there is no escaping the truth: Harry is not here. And Dolby is in his place. Not his place, she reminds herself. Just temporary. And necessary, she firmly reminds herself. But when she sees him now getting up and approaching her, common sense deserts her.

"Good Morning, Miss Evershed," the Director General greets her.

"Good Morning," she says as civilly as she can manage given the circumstances and her feelings.

The older man looks down at her past his rather prominent nose. "Well, it appears I will be here for a few days at least."

Flicking on her monitor, she nods at him, and then picks up her headset.

"And I know that you will prove to be quite an asset during this trying time."

"Right," she says and begins to adjust her headset.

He stands there a moment longer before adding, "I do hope that Sir Harry's son continues to improve."

"Improve?" she asks, finally looking up at Dolby. "Have you heard anything ...?"

He raises a bushy eyebrow.

"I mean, has Harry said there was improvement?"

He pauses a bit before answering her. "Sir Harry called me this morning and said his son is holding his own."

She nods and says nothing else.

"He also said," and now Dolby's eyes bore into hers, "that I can depend upon you." And he stares at her some more.

She holds his gaze then smiles at him. "What would you like me to do first, Sir Richard?"

* * *

_Harry_

What Harry told Dolby was correct. Although it could not be said that Graham was actually improving, he was holding his own. The vascular bleed had subsided; his blood pressure at optimum level—not an easy feat in such circumstances, and equally significant, the cranial pressure had not increased. As a result, the medical consensus was that surgery would not be in the patient's best interests; and as such, he would continue to be treated medically. And of course, carefully observed for any change in his condition. And since Harry is designated as the family spokesperson, the ICU keeps Harry fully informed; his job as such is to dispense such information to others. This he does, especially keeping Ruth and his former wife now due any minute from Denmark, fully apprised of Graham's condition.

The staff is not alone in carefully observing Graham. His son still sedated and still intubated, Harry keeps vigil at his bedside. His daughter, Harry hoped, was finally resting, perhaps sleeping, in a small room next door set up with a bed or two for family members of those in the ICU. Although it took some time, he was finally able to convince his daughter to at least lie down, promising to wake her in any event. This would also include, he told her, the arrival of her mother and his former wife.

His hand now resting on his son's, Harry eyes begin to close, finally. When they open again, he has no idea how much time has passed. But he senses something is different. He looks down at his son. Nothing appears to have changed at first glance; however, it does seem to him that his son's colour is different. Perhaps less grey. Pinker. He has no idea if he is imagining this or not. As he looks up to ask the nurse, he sees Jane on the other side of the bed, her eyes riveted upon her son.

"Jane." He says, clearing his voice, "when did you-?"

She lifts an exhausted eye to him. "A couple of hours ago."

He stares across at her. "Hours?"

She nods. "You were asleep."

For a moment, he searches for any criticism in her tone, any hidden nuance his fogged brain may have missed. But he soon realizes she is merely stating a fact. He nods back. "I didn't mean to. Fall asleep, that is."

She doesn't say anything to that, just glances somewhere towards the double doors. "They tell me she's asleep in the next room."

"Right." He says and begins to rise slowly. "I'm to tell her when you've arrived."

"Let her sleep," her mother says. "She sounded exhausted when I last spoke to her."

"But I told her that..."

"Please."

He pauses then nods. "Yes. You're right. She was practically sleeping on her feet which is why I insisted she lie down. We should let her sleep."

She looks at him then, about to say something but doesn't. But her face softens just a bit.

He rubs his face now shadowed with stubble, his gaze now upon their son. "Is there any…"

"No," she says, also looking down at Graham. "But he's not worse."

He nods.

Her face begins to crumple. "Oh, Graham."

He stares across at her as she breaks down, sobbing, bent over her son's body. She cries as much as his daughter had so many hours ago. He swallows, and then getting up, crosses to the other side. He stands near her, quite still. When he lifts his hand to rest upon her shoulder, she stiffens at his touch, but only for a moment. Then she half-turns to him, tears already staining her blouse. He pats her shoulder some more. "Graham," she says, between her tears."Graham."

He nods, swallowing again.

"Our son. Our son."

"Yes," he says, still patting her shoulder. "Our son."

Together they stare down at their son, Harry's hand still on her shoulder, the mother of his children. They are still like that when Catherine walks in. She watches them for a moment longer before quietly joining them at her brother's bedside.

* * *

_ Harry and Ruth_

Hours after Harry had called her earlier in the evening, Ruth is now dozing on the couch, her glass of unfinished wine on the small table next to her. Her eyes open at the unfamiliar sound of a car pulling into her driveway. She nearly trips over her slippers, and by the time she looks at the window, she sees him already approaching her door. She immediately unlocks it, and when she takes him in, her heart is filled with dread both at his unexpected arrival and how he looks.

Bloodshot. Unshaven. Dirty. Silent. And looking far older than his years.

"Oh, God, Harry. No. Please..." And she grips his arm.

He manages the smallest of smiles. "No...No...He's actually a little better."

Her eyes open. "He is?"

"Yes," he nods. "The pressure is down." And he touches his head. "Here, I mean."

"Oh, thank God."

"He's still not out of the woods. Still critical. And we really won't know how...he...the stroke, I mean. How it affected him. But still..." And he nods again, "he's better." And still standing there in her doorway, he begins to cry.

Later, much later, he lies on her couch, mobile close by, an afghan covering him. And Ruth now keeping vigil over him.

He sleeps.

-the end-

***Edited: there is an epilogue, chapter 17. **

* * *

I cannot thank each and every one who has read this story (and reviewed) enough. A difficult fic to write, your interest made it all worthwhile. And as I feel that this story has the potential for a sequel, I may continue this reality in the near future; if so, I hope to see you there! :) Again, my heartfelt thanks for all those who read, responded and encouraged me in this humble story. I could not have done this without you. Honest. xoxoox


	17. Chapter 17

_Epilogue (because Harry demanded that I do so. And whatever Harry wants, he gets.) _

:)

4 days later, Graham is still sedated and still in ICU, but the staff has begun the slow and careful process of weaning him from the barbiturates, thereby raising his level of consciousness. In doing so, they hope to elicit a meaningful response from him. But doing so is a delicate balance, allowing the brain to heal, keeping the patient calm and causing no farther harm in the process. And though his condition has not truly been upgraded, his doctors are encouraged by small yet significant milestones in their patient's condition, most notably the vascular bleed subsiding and of course the drop-off in cranial pressure as well.

But for Harry, irrespective of the staff's gentle encouragement, there has been real little change. His son has not actually opened his eyes nor communicated with him despite the recent efforts of the medical staff asking Graham to move his legs, or raise an arm or even squeeze their hand. This initial (they hope) lack of response, they remind Harry, is probably due to his medically induced coma; the more troubling of course, is the unknown effects of his stroke. And whilst the scans have ruled out any congenital abnormality of the brain and identified the area of the brain affected, the left side, the actual effects from the stroke remains unknown; these of course can range from devastating to mild along with a myriad of symptoms, most typically found in such cases on the right side of the body.

But Harry can handle his son walking with some type of aid like a stick. Maybe some speech problems, he thinks. Even months of rehabilitation. Anything than this, watching his son mute and unresponsive.

And despite the nurse's reminder that his son has reacted to stimuli such as a pinch and that the careful process of raising his son's level of consciousness takes time, he is anxious for some type of response. Anything. Indeed, so far his days are unchanged, spending them at his son's bedside. Evenings, he alternates with his ex-wife and daughter, at their behest; the off-evenings, he goes home. To Ruth (his dog Scarlet now being cared for by Malcolm.).

_Ruth_. His whole face softens when he thinks of her. Being with her. Loving her. She is a constant. That, and he glances down at Graham, and the present condition of his son. He sighs.

"Graham," he says, squeezing his left hand, "I know you can hear me. Come on. Show me. Show me you can hear me. That you're getting better. C'mon." And he gently squeezes his son's hand again. But like the nurse before him who tried earlier, there is no response.

He sighs. "Ok, I'm not going anywhere." And he leans down, dropping his voice. "You know I love you, don't you? I do. I...know..I.." He shakes his head. Now, he decides, is not the time to address his lost opportunities, his sins of omission. So he merely says again," I love you. I always have. I always will. And I'm not going anywhere. " And he squeezes his son's hand one more time. Then leaning back in his chair, he closes his eyes, his large hand still wrapped around his son's smaller, more delicate one.

He is jerked out of a light doze, his eyes snapping open. "Graham?"

And he looks down at his hand.

There is no mistake. No wishful thinking. No dream. Only a prayer answered: The young man's hand tightens ever so slightly around his father's.

Harry squeezes his son's hand back.

-The end-

(really) ;)

* * *

Again, thanks for reading/feedback. You guys are amazing!

xo


End file.
